Fighting for control of his limbs, Padric rose and stripped to his skin, fingers useless shards of blunt meat. A pained whimper came unbidden from his lips and holding his clothes in a sodden bundle, he ran. The air against his wet skin was excruciating, but that was only the surface. His survival lay deeper, in his muscles and his blood and the heart that fueled them. He ran, forcing the warmth to pump through him. His breath wheezed in his chest, his nostrils ran with stinging fluid, but he kept running, ignoring the awful slap of his numb feet against the grass.
He forced himself to stop when he saw the strays, four ewes and two lambs, huddled together near an outcropping of boulders. He crept up carefully, the cold instantly returning. If he spooked them, he was lost. It was difficult to keep his voice calm, his wordless sounds seeming harsh in his ragged throat, but he managed to get within arm’s reach of the biggest ewe. He soothed her with his voice and with gentle strokes, edging closer. At last he was able to kneel down and place his arms around her body, pressing himself into her wool. The sour, earthy smell was intoxicating and he drank it in as warmth and feeling began to slowly return to his body.
The other sheep remained close, more at ease in his presence. They were fellow survivors of the Wallow, truly lost without the company of dog or man. Padric wondered if they were of Laoire’s flock, or Dolan’s or Ardal’s or some other man whose name he never knew. They were all dead now. The smoke from the village was visible in the distance. He did not know where the Red Caps would go next, but he had to find safety and shelter.
Ardal had said the fort was a twelve mile journey and Padric thought he had a rough estimation of where it could be found. Warm enough to function, he wrung his clothes out as best he could and spread them on the boulders. The sheep stayed close, nipping at the grass. He had no provisions, no weapon and no idea if the Red Caps were close to heel. He would have to leave the strays behind if he was to make any speed. The thought pained him suddenly and he sat against the boulder, tears coming. He wept and then laughed at his own absurdity, the chuckles coming between sobs. In time, he donned his damp clothes and turned his back on his saviors. They followed him, at first, but Padric refused to look back and quickened his steps.
He traveled throughout the day, following the Trough, hoping that the fort would lie close to its banks. He wished often for his pack and the food that it contained, the warm cloak, his father’s rope. All of those were now gone, along with the seax, left amidst the ashes and the bodies. He had eaten nothing since the Tor and could not remember the last time he was allowed to sleep.
Night came and he had neither the tools nor the stomach for a fire. He huddled through the cold, windy night, small and exposed in the middle of the fields. He plodded dumbly throughout the following day, each step feeling more pointless than the last. He was hollow, empty of nourishment, hope and reason. The river, the endless plains, the steely sky, they remained constant and tireless while he slowed and shrunk. A wet cough took up residence in his chest and soon he was sweating, shaking with fever. His joints ached deeply, robbing him of strength and the molten sloshing in his ears imprisoned his senses. Sound and sight bled together into a queasy morass of sensation. His head was heavy and hot, boiled raw through throat and nostril. His ribs quaked with chill, weak hands clutching to hold them still.
Stumbling, bent double with racking coughs, he trudged miserably on, dimly aware that he had lost a direct course miles ago. He careened, drunk with sickness until the crushing wool in his skull and the swamp in his lungs, sent him to his knees. Yet still he rose, stubbornly forcing the feeble steps, only to fall again.
And rise…and fall.
He awoke coughing, terrible visions of flames and burning corpses fleeing his mind, replaced by the smoldering coals of a hearth pit. Blankets covered him and Padric could feel the forgotten softness of a straw mattress cradling his back.
“Try not to move,” a man’s voice told him as a strong hand pressed gently into his chest. “The compress will loosen.”
Padric became aware of a cool tingling in his torso and the tightness of linen bandages. The cloud of feverish sleep was lifting, allowing the pounding of his head and the soreness of his throat to make themselves known.
The man stared down at him, features lost to the deep shadows of the room.
“Can you drink?”
Padric nodded and tried to answer, but a painful croak was all he managed. He was lifted easily from behind his head and a steaming cup was held to his lips. The brew was scalding, going down in a cloying torrent of bitter herbs and strong spirits. He swallowed and tried to lie back, but was held upright, the cup still under his chin.
“Breathe,” the voice instructed. “The vapors will help.”
Padric did as he was told and soon he found his head clearing, his lungs opening. There was still pain, but it no longer threatened to engulf him. After a while, he was guided back down and lay back against the mattress.
“You are fortunate.” The voice moved about the room. “Now rest.”
Padric must have slept. Through his closed lids, he perceived the room brightening and when he opened them fully, a gray sky floated in the window. The room was small but well-constructed; walls, floor and beams all strong wood. Padric’s mattress lay atop a thick palette of animal hides. A simple stool sat next to a small table with a copper basin and various clay jars resting atop. The man had pulled the hide curtain away from the window and was standing with his back to Padric, staring out into the wet day. Seeming to sense Padric’s eyes on him, the man turned calmly. He was tall, long waves of flaxen hair half tied behind his head. The simple belted robe he wore revealed broad shoulders and a slim waist, a physique defying the weathered lines of a face well into middle years. A short and neatly trimmed beard covered a strong jaw beneath proud cheekbones and hunter’s eyes, sharp and deeply lined at the corners. He fetched a cup from the table and filled it in the basin, bringing it over and kneeling beside the mattress.
“Water,” he said, offering the cup.
Padric pushed himself up, finding the compress gone. He reached out and took the cup, drinking the contents down in long pulls.
“I thank you,” he managed, his voice oddly pitched with disuse.
The man nodded and took the cup back, setting it on the floor. “Lean forward.”
Padric did so and the man placed a broad hand across his back. “Breathe thrice deeply.”
As Padric took the breaths, the man kept his face down and away, eyes closed in concentration. After the final breath he removed his hand and looked at Padric.
“Good,” he said with some pride. “Some hot food and all will be hale.”
“How did I come to be here?” Padric asked.
“You were within sight of the walls when you collapsed.”
“Walls?” Realization struck him. “The fort! This is the fort of Kederic Winetongue?”
“It is.”
“I must speak with him. Hog’s Wallow has been razed!”
“Yes,” the man replied. “Four days ago.”
“Days? But the Red Caps…”
“The goblins have moved on. They did not risk the defenses here.”
“The families…did they arrive? Are they safe?”
“They are.”
“There was a piskie with them…Rosheen. Is she here?”
“No.”
“But Ardal said she led the villagers here.”
“And the villagers say the same, but when they arrived there was no sign of any piskie.”
Worry quickly replaced relief. Had she gone back? Thrown herself into peril for fear of his own fate? Were she and Fafnir caught by the Red Caps to be tortured and set ablaze, like the poor shepherds?
“The other men?” Padric asked suddenly. “Did any of them survive?”
The man’s broad shoulders dropped slightly and a resigned expression filled his face. “I thought to ask you the same question.”
Padric had known the answer, of course,
but this man must have held out some hope. A hope Padric had just dashed with his own pointless question.
“Faabar…he might have…”
The man waved him off. “Warriors were dispatched to the village. They returned and reported nothing of the fomori. Only the burnt bodies of good men.”
Anger flared up in Padric. This fool did not need to tell him, he had been there.
“Good men that stood alone while the Thegn’s warriors hid here and did nothing!”
The outburst did not change the man’s expression. “How were they to know?”
“The herbalist…he rode here to raise the alarm.”
The man shook his head. “He did not come.”
Padric’s face fell, his anger dissolving. “But, he…”
The man stood and went to the window, looking out as he spoke.
“We awoke to smoke on the horizon and the warriors marshaled…but the women and children of Hog’s Wallow were outside the walls before they could ride. They said a piskie had come and warned them of a Red Cap attack and then led them to safety with the help of some steel-mongering dwarf. The fate of the town was written on the morning sky, but of a helpful Fae-girl there was no sign. Goblins have raided and vanished. And now you say the gnome was sent here as well? The Fae have ever been practiced at elusiveness.”
Padric had heard enough from this leech. He flung the blankets away and spotting fresh clothes folded on the table, he rose. He managed one step and then his quivering legs betrayed him. The man caught him as he fell and guided him back to the palette. Padric felt a helpless babe, naked and weak in the man’s stable grip.
“Food would be wise before attempting that again. I shall have some brought up to you.” The man rose and went to the door.
“But after,” Padric said before he could leave. “I would still speak with the Thegn.”
The man inclined his head without mockery. “And so you have,” he said. “I am Kederic, called by some the Winetongue and you are welcome in my holdfast.”
The food came, but the Thegn did not. Padric had hoped to see a familiar face, maybe Jileen, but the girl who came with the bread and broth was not from the village. Perhaps the daughter or young wife of one of the warriors. She smiled shyly and left quietly. Padric was ravenous and ate with vigor, but his stomach was quickly filled by the broth, so he left the bread untouched. He dressed, finding the boots and breeches to be his own, but the shirt and long, sleeveless jerkin were new. They had the cut and durability of soldier’s garments and Padric felt awkward in them.
He was uncertain if he was to wait for the Thegn’s return or if someone would send for him, but after a few minutes Padric abandoned any thought of patience or decorum and went out the door. A narrow and short hallway led to a large vaulted hall, empty but for a few dogs drowsing amongst the floor rushes. Long benches stood around a circular stone fire-pit, lit and smoking up towards a hole in the thatching.
Padric crossed the length of the hall and pushed open the heavy double doors at the far end. Outside he found a windy morning, devoid of rain and sun. The hall was built atop stout beams, overlooking the interior yards and affording Padric an expansive view of the fort. It was easily twice the size of Stone Fort, but still constructed entirely of wood and Padric noticed no sign of work being done to reinforce with masonry. The smaller buildings were built against the interior of the defensive wall, their turf roofs nestled comfortably under the walkways. Men with spears, cloaked against the wind, walked steady patrols and there were archers in the half dozen sturdy watchtowers. Women, children and livestock could be seen going to and fro across the yards. A generous stable and its surrounding paddocks dominated the western side, and Padric could see the most activity lay there. He descended the stairs of the hall, his legs still quivering slightly and headed for the stables.
Kederic Winetongue was indeed within, looking intently into one of the stalls. Several other men were gathered around, talking casually of foaling with the same voice Padric had heard his father use so many times. They had never owned horses, but the forced confidence in the voices of the Thegn’s grooms was identical to the farmers of Padric’s childhood during lambing.
Padric approached and saw a mare, swollen and still, her time clearly near. The Thegn did not look his way when he spoke.
“Do you know of horses, Padric?”
“No,” he replied, less than surprised at the knowledge of his name. He wondered what else the refugees had told this man. “Swine and sheep. And crops. These I know. Horses are for a man who means to travel far.”
A smile turned up on the Thegn’s profile. “And you have not travelled far?”
The events of the last moon’s turn fell heavily into Padric’s thoughts.
“Farther than I ever expected,” he answered after a moment. “A horse…would have helped.”
Kederic breathed a quick laugh and turned to his grooms. “Keep me informed,” he instructed before looking at Padric for the first time. He gave a quick appraisal before nodding with satisfaction. “Much improved. Please, walk with me.”
The Thegn left the stables with long, easy strides and Padric followed. When they were out in the yard, Kederic slowed his pace and Padric came up alongside.
“My thanks for your attentions,” Padric said. “I did not expect to be tended by my host.”
“The best man for the right job,” Kederic said. “It is important to know a man’s skill…his worth, be he Thegn or stable boy. Titles of leadership do not matter when another’s life is in balance. I have been through many wars and several plagues. None here know herbcraft better than I, and it would be unjust to put a sick man in less capable hands.
“Had you been a horse about to give birth,” the Thegn waved over his shoulder at the stables and smiled. “I would gladly have stepped aside.”
They ascended a set of steep steps to the top of the wall. Padric saw a staked ditch just below, thick with muddy puddles and an earthen mound beyond. The fort stood atop a high hill and Padric had an uninterrupted view of the An Curragh plains, cold and green and boulder-strewn. To the south Padric could see no smoke, no sign of Hog’s Wallow. The Thegn’s gaze rested on the same horizon.
“A cruel fate,” Kederic said softly, his voice barely audible in the wind. “You are much blessed to have survived it.”
Padric’s hair blew into his face. “Cursed, you mean. The widows will hate me for breathing while their husbands’ blackened bones lay scattered in muddy ash. A coal-headed stranger who brought nothing but ill-omens and death. I ran while others fell.”
“Every man runs from the battles he survives, Padric.” Kederic told him. “How did you come to be there?”
Padric snorted at that. He was not sure himself. But he told the tale as best he could. About his home and family, the mistrust of his neighbors and Rosheen’s friendship. He told of Fafnir, the journey to Hog’s Wallow and the changeling child in the woods. He told of the hunt for the Unwound and meeting the Thegn’s own men at Bairn’s Babble. Finally, he told of the terrible night in the forest and the emergence of the goblin wizard from the flames and Faabar’s unrelenting protection of the village. As he spoke, he grew disturbed, the words forced through grit teeth. This man had saved his life and deserved answers to his questions, but Padric deserved answers as well. He finished his tale and then looked the Thegn boldly in the eye.
“Why did you not help us?”
Kederic returned his stare, but did not bristle at its harshness or the angry tone in Padric’s voice. “Some of what you have said was known to me. Much and more was not. For some time, I have pleaded with the people of Hog’s Wallow to live under my protection, but they refused. Brogan was the largest voice of protest, but I believe they all felt as he did, believing themselves safe from the abominable horrors that stalk these lands. They put their faith in immortal champions and the mystical arts of Fae-folk, all the while ignoring that the greatest threat to their lives was that very allegiance.
“The Fae are wondrous beings, Padric. Immortal and fair, they have crafts and knowledge beyond the ken of man, and for years too impossible to count we have been caught in the middle of their wars and jealousies. They claim this isle to be under the stewardship of their Elf King, but he has not been seen since before my grandfather’s time and Airlann falls deeper into turmoil with each passing year. I have sailed across the waters to the east and seen the other Tin Isles and there are strange creatures that reside in those lands as well. Aye, even beyond in snow-covered Middangeard, giants and trolls roam the mountains. And it is said there are worse things in the deep forests of Outborders, where even I have never set foot.
“But nowhere, Padric…nowhere does the Magic of the Fae hold such sway as here, trapping the land in this perpetual season, ever-dying. They claim rule over this island, these immortals, but we are abandoned, left to defend ourselves as best we may amongst enmities forged thousands of years before our most distant ancestors were born. Once long ago, a handful of mortals dared to rise against this mysterious Seelie Court. It was men who marshaled the goblins and overthrew the elves. They were wicked men for certain, dabbling in dark sorcery never intended for mortal hands and eventually they were laid low, but their betrayal…their boldness is remembered and cursed by the Fae-folk to this day. Do you think they do not hate us for that? Do you think we are not attacked at night, murdered by changelings in vengeance for the actions of those long dead warlocks who defied them?
“These Red Caps would see the heirs of those men restored to power, but the rest of us are fit for nothing but slavery and slaughter. Fae-folk are powerful. They can change their skins, wield the elements as weapons and they feel no disease or infirmity. They are stronger, faster, wiser and keener than even the best warrior born to a mortal mother. But there is a weakness…a single gift that we might harness to protect ourselves. Iron is poison to them and it is only that discovery that has saved mortal-kind. The dwarves have smelted a stronger metal and they peddle it across the Tin Isles, trading to mortal and Fae alike, but you will find no weapons of steel in the hands of my men. It is with iron that we place our trust, for there is more need of it now than ever.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 20
