by Dorian Hart
“But we’re kind of the oddballs of the group, don’t you think? Tor was right. Neither of us is a warrior or wizard or an agent of the divine.”
“Can’t disagree with that, neither,” said Kibi with a shrug.
“But Abernathy convinced you to go along. Would I be prying too much to ask what he said to you?”
Kibi didn’t answer right away, and when he did the words came slowly.
“The old wizard told me…told me…” He scratched his beard. “Listen, this ain’t gonna sound sensible, but he told me that the earth said I oughta help.”
On the surface of it, yes, that sounded like nonsense, but over her long life Ysabel had learned that few things made sense right on their surface. She studied Kibi’s face. His lips twitched and he licked his lips, as though he wanted to say more but didn’t know how to continue. She gave him an encouraging smile. “And you believed him?”
Kibi looked at her and smiled back. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “I guess I did.”
Sometimes getting someone to come out of their shell was like pulling up stubborn weeds from the field, but they had to come up in the end. “And that was enough to convince you?”
“Yup.”
“Do you believe the earth can speak?”
Kibi answered with silence, but again the movements of his face betrayed something like reluctant anticipation.
“Does it speak to you?”
Kibi stopped walking and let out a breath. His smile vanished. Had she pushed too hard? “Ysabel, you’re a good-hearted person, anyone can see, and I know you mean well. But I ain’t quite ready to talk about everythin’ just yet. This whole arrangement is confusin’, and we ain’t known each other for a week.”
“That’s all right,” she told him. “But if you ever think it would ease your heart to talk things out, I’m always here to listen. Truth is, I’m not sure what else there is for me to do. I’m twice the age of the rest of you, except Grey Wolf, and even he’s twenty years my junior. Someone needs to keep you youngsters on the straight path. I don’t know why Abernathy put me in such an outlandish venture as this, and Pikon only knows what I’ll do if things get dangerous, but that’s as good a reason as I can think of.”
“Guess that makes sense,” said Kibi. “And I’ll do my best to protect you.”
“Thank you, Kibi.”
* * *
Ysabel Horn’s parents had both died when the blood cough found their farm, going on fifty years ago now. It was a quick and ruthless thing; her mother had lasted four days, her father six. Ysabel’s parents had always given their prayers to Pikon, God of the Harvest, but at fourteen, bereft of her family, she had harsh words for her god. The Pikonish priest had visited her several times in the weeks after, but he never had a good answer as to why her parents had been taken from her so quickly.
“Was it one of the Travelers?” she had asked him. “Is one of them a god of disease?”
“No, child,” the priest had said.
“Then it was Pikon,” she had accused.
“The Gods need not explain themselves,” the priest had said. “And all men and women die, at different times, for different reasons. Your parents, they were good people, but it was their time to go. Pikon gives us no guarantees in this life. He expects you to make the most of your years and give back to the earth, and not make war upon your neighbors. Beyond that, life is our own to live.”
The priest had patted her on the shoulder. He was a good man with a goodly store of platitudes. “Be strong, Ysabel. Be strong.”
And she had been. At fourteen she took over the family farm, first with the help of some folk from nearby farms, but soon enough on her own. Her family’s acreage was nothing to boast about, but it had cows to milk and eggs to collect, two small fields to plant and harvest, and endless repairs to make on an ancient weather-beaten barn. By eighteen Ysabel Newfield was as tough and brown as an oak tree.
At twenty, she met William Horn. William was a fisherman’s son who plied his trade off the gray coast of Minok, a young man of modest means and sunny disposition. He was returning from visiting some inland cousins when his horse pulled up lame, and her farmhouse was the first one he came to. He knocked on her door, seeking a place to spend the night.
He had stayed for a week and a day, returned four more times before the month was out, and they were soon after married. He moved into her farmhouse, but spent half his time away in Minok; the sea was in his blood, and he could no more give it up than Mrs. Horn would have abandoned her farm. But it worked. They were both independent souls, and their love was not lessened when a few miles of fields and ocean lay between them. Always he would come back, bringing her gifts from the city, helping the farmhands that his fishing income allowed them to hire, and warming her bed through every chilly night.
The only shadow over their marriage was the absence of children. They both wanted them, but it was not Pikon’s will. She and William were into their forties before they became resigned to it, and after that things were better. The farmer and the fisherman, they knew how to survive life’s rough weather.
That remained true until five years ago, when a storm surged up from the south and William didn’t come home from a simple overnight excursion. She waited, patiently, knowing he had washed up somewhere along the coast and would soon make his way home. When a week had gone past, she knew he must be adrift, riding a piece of wayward flotsam, waiting for rescue. After a month, she realized he had fallen upon an unmarked and uninhabited island, unable to return to her. Yes, they had talked about the dangers of a fisherman’s trade, but her heart wasn’t ready to let go.
And so she waited, patiently, for five years. Though there was no logic in it, she still repeated her wish like a mantra. William was lost, but not gone, and one day he’d sail home to her.
Then Abernathy’s letter had arrived. Ysabel didn’t know anything about magic or wizards, but it reignited a spark of true hope in her. Abernathy could help her find William, or at least his magic could confirm her husband was truly dead. And when he had come to her room two nights before they departed, she had put it to him directly. He wanted her help with his monster? She wanted his with William.
The old wizard had smiled at her. “I don’t have a great deal of spare time these days,” he had told her. “But I will do what I can to help you and William reunite. Understand, though, that if I find him, and he is alive, I would still like you to stay a part of the group.”
And that had been fine with Ysabel. Knowing, that was the thing.
* * *
The next morning she woke early to collect more buckthorn for Morningstar, the poor dear. The only other person up and about was Grey Wolf, prowling the forest beside the road.
He tilted his head. “’Morning, ma’am.”
“You’re old enough to call me Ysabel,” she said. “Are you looking for something?”
“I’m looking for trouble,” he said, and she knew that he hadn’t meant it to come out like that. It made her grin. “I mean, I’m keeping an eye out for anything that might cause us trouble,” he clarified.
She gestured to where the others slept. “It’s good that they have you. They’re so young, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, and that worries me,” said Grey Wolf. “Morningstar, Tor, and Ernie, they may have fought against sparring partners and hay bales, but that’s no substitute for the real thing.”
“Whereas you are well versed in ‘the real thing.’ So teach them. We’re all here for a reason. Could that be yours?”
“Maybe.”
“You didn’t sound like someone keen on joining up when we were all in Abernathy’s library,” she said. “What did Abernathy say to you?”
“Not your business,” he said gruffly. Then he looked down at the ground, sheepish at having been brusque. “It’s personal, I mean.”
“Is it the same personal not-my-business that makes you call yourself Grey Wolf instead of Ivellios? I quite like the name Ivellios.”
“Yes,” said Grey Wolf. “Abernathy told me that in the course of running his errands, I stand a decent chance of learning something related to…to my personal business.”
“I see. So that’s what’s important to you. To learn something.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t think sharing with our young friends, who mostly look up to you, could have an effect on that? Ernie alone would bend himself backward to help you out, and he hardly knows you yet.”
Grey Wolf smiled at her. “Are you certain you’re not a priest? You talk like one.”
“Heavens, no,” she said. “I’m just a farmer, whisked away by a mighty wizard like the rest of you.”
Grey Wolf peered westward down the Greatwood Road. “Ysabel, I’ll think about what you’ve said. I promise. I don’t trust people as a rule, but I’ll think about it.”
That was the best she was going to get, so she returned her attention to the buckthorn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ERNIE PEERED OVER the sidewall of the wide stone bridge. The rapids churned up the ruddy soil, giving the water a reddish cast.
“That river is called the Redwater,” said Aravia. “It parallels the Greatwood Road all the way from Tal Killip to Minok on the western coast, probably two hundred miles.”
Ernie stared at her. Over her shoulder he saw the little village of Walnord, nestled where the sparse track they had been following met up with the broader and better-maintained Greatwood Road. “You really have memorized the entire map of the kingdom?”
Aravia smirked. “I have. One of the most important faculties a wizard must develop is her memory, and I’ve worked very hard on my recall. I can remember the details of most things I’ve looked at.”
Ernie smiled back, but she reminded him, more than any of his companions, of how absurdly unworthy he was. She was unfathomably smart, just as Tor and Grey Wolf were (he was certain) such natural warriors. And Dranko had his healing (or so he claimed), and Morningstar her dreams, and Mrs. Horn was so wise and insightful, while Kibi…well, Ernie wasn’t sure, but probably something impressive.
And what did he himself have?
He could cook.
He shook his head and kept to himself as his companions debated whether they should stop in Walnord for the day or get another four hours of travel under their boots and camp on the road. Grey Wolf pointed out that Walnord had a clean-looking inn, and they would all benefit from a night’s sleep in real beds. Morningstar felt the same, but Aravia had reminded them of Abernathy’s need for haste, and Tor had immediately agreed with her. Dranko added that lodging for eight would eat into their remaining funds. In the end they stopped only long enough to purchase more food, before putting Walnord at their backs and continuing westward until nightfall.
As they made camp that night in a grassy clearing, Tor let out a long sigh. “I was hoping for more adventure,” he complained. “This is just…walking and camping.”
“Just be happy we haven’t been beset by bandits or bears,” said Grey Wolf. “I think because there are eight of us, we’re unlikely to be troubled.”
Ernie hoped it would stay that way. Abernathy hadn’t needed to sell him on the idea of helping protect the kingdom from danger, but Ernie was terrified when he thought about the particulars. The evening in Abernathy’s tower had been blurred in his memory by confusion and excitement, but he remembered clearly what the wizard had said to Tor: “…afforded opportunities for adventure and glory that few in a generation are given.” Adventure and glory sounded great in the abstract, but his knees knocked when he thought about facing down monsters or highwaymen or mountain lions or whatever else they might encounter. He never admitted his cowardice to Old Bowlegs—he couldn’t stand the thought of letting his old master down—but a coward he was, and the whole “Golden Boy of White Ferry” thing was a sham, a bubble he hadn’t the heart to burst.
Well, he could stand in the back with Mrs. Horn, behind Tor and Grey Wolf. They were skilled and brave, you could just tell.
* * *
Two days later, as the shadows of trees lengthened in the woods around them, the group shuffled into the tiny village of Verdshane, six days after setting out from Tal Hae.
Calling it a village was generous; it made White Ferry look like a thriving metropolis. All of five buildings clustered in a scared-looking huddle around the road, with another half-dozen set back among the trees. There were no people in sight.
“Is that an inn?” Tor pointed to the largest of the buildings, the only one with a second story. A battered signboard named it the Shadow Chaser.
“Only one way to find out,” said Dranko.
Ernie followed Dranko across the road. A strange and unpleasant odor grew stronger as they neared the building.
“Something in there smells pretty rank,” said Dranko. He opened the door, and a dreadful stink rolled out of it. Ernie grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted it over his mouth and nose, even as he looked in. At first glance the inside of the Shadow Chaser reminded him of the Rusty Mug back in White Ferry. There were tables set with mugs and plates, plenty of chairs, and a long bar at the back.
Except its half-dozen patrons were as dead as stones. All but one were sprawled on the floor; the remaining body was draped stomach-down over a table. Flies busied themselves about the corpses. Many of the chairs were overturned. Plates and silverware, some whole and some shattered, were strewn about the wood-plank floor.
Dranko murmured under his breath, “May Delioch have mercy on their souls.”
Ernie’s blood ran cold. It hadn’t occurred to him that adventure and glory would include dead people! Around him the others were crowding to look in. Aravia gasped; Kibi coughed. The smell was indescribably foul.
Ernie felt bile rise in his throat. “What…what happened?”
“Looks like the stew didn’t agree with them,” said Dranko.
Tor pushed his way to the front, shouldering past Ernie and taking two steps into the commons. “There could still be someone alive in there!”
“Kid,” said Grey Wolf, “That’s not a great idea.”
Tor stopped and looked around, then drew his sword.
“Do you see something?” asked Ernie.
“No,” said Tor. “But I thought I heard a—”
Something buzzed toward them from the back of the commons, like a hard-thrown rock. Tor slashed at it with his sword but was much too slow, and the thing bounced hard off his shoulder. But instead of falling to the ground, it rebounded back and hovered in the air. It was a muffin-sized oval of fur-covered muscle, with one enormous eye, a pair of insect wings sprouting from its middle, six tiny insect-legs, and an open mouth full of sharp little teeth.
“Pikon’s pancakes!” Ernie exclaimed. He tried to fight down a wave of fear as he fumbled for Pyknite and stepped into the building. A huge smile spread over Tor’s face, and the hulking boy took another slash at the strange creature. It dipped and dodged like a hummingbird, then dove toward Tor’s neck, latching on with its teeth. Tor shouted in pain, dropped his weapon, and grabbed the thing with both hands, sinking his fingers into its fleshy fist-sized body. Blood stained the boy’s face, but was it from Tor or the creature he was squeezing? Ernie felt faint. Oh Gods, what if he did faint?
By the time the others had dashed inside to see what the commotion was about, Tor had dislodged the strange one-eyed monster and pinned it on the ground beneath his boot. His face and neck were smeared with blood.
Kibi stepped up and drew the mining pick from his belt. The little monster squirmed beneath Tor’s foot, but before it could wriggle free Kibi slowly pushed the sharp end of the pick into the thing’s body. It stopped squirming.
“That…that didn’t seem so dangerous,” Ernie stammered. Brave face! “I wonder how it managed to kill all these people.”
Like a pod of little furry meteors, another half-dozen of the things burst from an open door behind the bar and streaked toward him, filling the air with t
he drone of their wings. Ernie shrieked and chopped the air wildly with Pyknite, but the things were too quick; one thumped into Dranko’s chest, and a second landed on Grey Wolf’s head. Morningstar was the only one to land a hit on one of the monsters; she swung her mace and a furry ball wound up impaled on its spikes. Mrs. Horn gave a little shriek and dropped to a crouch behind a chair.
It was all of his nightmares come to life. He wanted to run out the door, away from the corpses and monsters, but the thought of abandoning his friends was as unthinkable as discovering his courage. While he was frozen with indecision, a flying abomination landed on his sword arm and bit right through his shirt. Ernie yelped in pain, staggered to the nearest table as the thing chewed on him, and flailed his arm down as hard as he could. Plates fountained upward, but the tenacious little biter was still attached. Twice more he thumped the monster onto the table, harder each time as panic gripped him, until it finally let go, buzzing drunkenly back into the air. Ernie held out his sword in front of him, his body shaking with terror and adrenaline. The furry thing bobbed up and down, its buzzing erratic now, probably because Ernie had damaged its wings. Ernie set himself to take a swing, took a deep breath…and Tor’s sword came down from the side and split the monster in half.
“Take that!” Tor cried. He winked at Ernie, but Ernie was far too flustered by the blood and chaos to acknowledge the gesture. Behind Tor, Mrs. Horn was still hiding, hunkered behind a chair—and one of the monsters was climbing up her shoulder toward her neck. As Ernie opened his mouth to shout a warning, another flying monster slammed into the side of his head with enough force to spin him around. He turned, dazed from the impact, and while the creature had caromed away, it was already returning. He chopped frantically with Pyknite, forgetting every lesson Old Bowlegs had ever taught him, and to his great surprise he cut right through an edge of the creature’s body, severing one wing in the process. It dropped and scooted in pathetic little circles on the ground, trailing blood.
