by GJ Kelly
“Now then, now then!” Crellan shouted, clambering up onto the wall around the well and holding out both hands against the advancing crowd. “Now then! Fallowmead to the shed! To the shed! All folk to the shed!”
Word spread, and was carried through the small crowd, and then somewhere a bell began to ring. Homes started emptying, people making their way to the sheds on the northern side of town, Crellan jumping down and ushering them along while the elves watched, quietly alert.
“We may need to guard our own horses,” Valin declared. “Lest in their fear and panic, villagers try to steal them.”
“How far do you think our steeds would allow strangers who cannot ride to take them?” Meeya sniffed.
Valin shrugged. “Nevertheless, we shall need them to ensure Ranger Leeny’s safety, and that of the Merionell.”
“Not until we have destroyed the enemy, Ranger Valdo,” Elayeen announced. “We have more resources at our command than you have seen. And G’wain showed us the power of his creativity at Far-gor. We shall show the enemy ours, if this Crellan Jokdaw can hold his people and persuade them to stand.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then the village and its people are dead. And we will then discover if Hern and Bek’s plans to harass the enemy to extinction on horseback instead of facing them at Far-gor might not have had some merit. Of one thing you may be sure. In Gawain’s absence, I shall not permit a dark wizard and his army of Meggen to roam at liberty throughout Arrun and Mornland.”
oOo
24. Nasty
The looks on Valin’s and Meeya’s faces spoke volumes, though they remained silent, and Elayeen did her best to ignore them. It was perfectly obvious that her friends believed the defence of Fallowmead utter folly, a large stride down a very short path to certain destruction. But they would stand beside her, she knew that. They always had, and always would. The thought gave her little comfort though, and merely increased the load of responsibility she already bore on her slender shoulders.
She had given up trying to understand how Gawain made it all look so easy. His character was like a sparkling gem, facets cut within facets, and beyond the darkness of his rage against Morloch, he was educated but wild, gentle but fierce, good-humoured yet stern and as unyielding as the rock face which even now the enemy were scaling. The throth had given her profound insight into his feelings, his moods, the very core of him, but it did not give her his powers of leadership, his education, his understanding of men and what they might be led to do in war and how to lead them to it.
As she walked slowly down the path towards the first of the two vast shearing sheds where the whole village was assembling, her anger died, leaving her committed to these people. But she was no foolish child, and she knew that the three of them would, should all hope of prevailing against the enemy be lost, abandon Fallowmead to its fate, take to horse, and harry the enemy from the furthest range of their bows until aid arrived from Sudshear. They had, she had, after all, once abandoned Gawain in the depths of the Barak-nor. She had once come within a few yards of shooting Gawain from the back of a Kraal-beast, for the sake of the seed she carried and the Merionell…
But that compulsion had been at its strongest there on the Jarn Road. Here, in the middle of a sheep farm in Arrun, it was scarcely a memory, the gentlest of tugs, nudging her, gently but insistently, as a breeze might nudge a boat at anchor. They waited outside the immense sliding door of the shed, until the last of the villagers passed within, and then they followed.
Crellan Jokdaw was standing near the head of the shearing tables, all placed end to end to form one long work surface, and he ushered the elves towards him. Elayeen strode without hesitation to that end of the shed, flanked by her friends. No sooner did they arrive than Crellan mounted a couple of wooden crates and clambered up onto the table, holding up his hands for quiet. The villagers, standing either side of the great length of tables and doubtless in some indiscernible pecking-order, fell silent, some glowering angrily, some confused, others wide-eyed with fear in the gloom of the cavernous building.
“Friends of Fallowmead…”
“I ain’t yer friend, Crellan Jokdaw!” a voice called
“Keep yer tongue to yerself, Gonvil dung-fer-brains! I’ve had enough o’ you fer one day! And the same goes fer yer half-wit brother Alek! This ‘ere meeting decides the fate of all o’ ye, and I’ll be heard without interruption and my boot in the teeth o’ the next dag-crutching muck-raker opens his gob while I’m talkin’!”
Crellan breathed heavily, his once jolly face flushed crimson with anger, an anger the villagers had never seen on public display before. His great barrel chest heaved, and the deep resonance it afforded his voice in the confines of the shed added even more power to the man’s aspect. No longer was he a figure of well-loved good humour, portly and jolly. Now, he was large and imposing and not to be trifled with.
“That’s better! Now pin back yer ears, all o’ ye, and listen well! You’ve seen the three Rangers who come to our aid, and for them that don’t know, though I doubt there’ll be many of those by now, they found the message we sent out with wee Kistin. They found our Kistin too, and laid her to rest. A long way from home she lies, too, and it’s for us she’s in that cold ground, and us to thank for it. So before any o’ you start to even think of opening yer mouths and shouting me down, think on the little girl we sent to ‘er doom, far from home, just so’s you and me can stand ‘ere still breathing!”
There was a long and quiet pause, as feet shuffled and heads bowed. There were a few coughs, and many more sniffs. Crellan allowed the pause to stretch the tension almost to breaking-point before he continued.
“Now then,” he said, his voice a little quieter, obliging the villagers unconsciously to ease forward a little, “The day will come when us all will walk out to where wee Kistin lies alone, and we’ll bring ‘er back home, back where she belongs. We’ll do right by her memory, we’ll honour her like none from Fallowmead has ever known.”
There were murmurs of ‘aye’ and ‘so we shall’ and firm nods of agreement.
“But we can’t do that if there ain’t any of us left to honour those what died trying to bring us out of the misery gathering above Comfortless Cove. Kistin, Camran, and Brod. They tried, and we let ‘em. Now it’s our turn to do our bit, or run chicken to a miserable end, and their three lives wasted on cowards such as us.”
Again Crellan paused, allowing the choice to sink in. Honour the dead and their memory, or die like dogs on the run. Before the more shrewd or cynical of his audience could question or raise a doubt, he continued, Elayeen watching the crowd, and how expertly he carried them along with him.
“Now, you seen these three Rangers. Come down from the north they did, fought in the war there, and won, kicked Morloch’s arse so ‘ard the black-eyed bastard won’t be setting on it in a month of Sundays! Did for those dog-things that took poor wee Kistin from us. Did for that bloody sword-bird too, that took our Brod, and our Camran. Took from Fallowmead three of ours, them creatures did, and aye, took our last three ‘orses too, Dwarfspit bastards!”
More murmuring, anger towards the unseen enemy rising.
“Now these three Rangers mean to do for them that raised such evil against us. But they can’t do it alone. They can’t do it without us, just as we couldn’t do for them dogs or that sword-bird without them. So. It comes to this, and mark you well, it comes to this: We stick it out here, with the Rangers, and when it’s done and dusted and us the victors, then we go and bring wee Kistin home, and honour her and Brod and Camran all three. Or we run to the wilds and die like sheep to Morloch’s wolves, screaming, and far from ‘ome.”
There was another long pause, and then a sullen voice called:
“At ‘ome or otherwise, what’s the difference? What chance we got, us and three Rangers against an ‘undred o’ them and a dark lord as can make sword-birds and such?”
It was the moment Elayeen had been secretly dreading. T
he question couldn’t be answered by Crellan. She doubted even she could answer it yet.
“More bloody chance than we got alone in the wild, that’s what, Gonvil Dag-crutcher! And more bloody chance with the Rangers than without, or would you rather see ‘em ride away from yer whining and leave us alone to face the wolves?”
Elayeen sighed softly in the murmuring that followed, and holding her bow loose, climbed up the makeshift steps onto the table, cloak thrown wide over her shoulders to expose the weapons at her belt. At once, Crellan placed his right hand on his heart and bowed, then made a sweeping gesture to give her the table, and the floor.
For the briefest of moments, she stood there facing Crellan, and then she turned, and summoned the Sight, staring down at the nearest villager, unblinking. Slowly, silently, she took a step, and shifted her gaze to the next villager in line. Step by step, she walked the length of the table, briefly robbing each villager of breath with the paralysing gaze of eldeneyes, though she spared the children, of course. When she came near the end of the table she spied the one called Gonvil, and his brother Alek beside him, and them she held trapped in her gaze longer…
At the foot of the table she turned, making her way slowly, silently back up the other side, finally to take her place beside Crellan Jokdaw. Then she blinked away the Sight, and regarded them all. They were stunned, all of them. Never had they seen an elf, much less did they have any knowledge of their ancient Sight. They had been held, all of them, utterly enthralled, by a slender slip of a girl with hazel-green eyes and scarecrow hair, and not understanding what had happened or the source of her obvious power, regarded her now with more than a little awe, and likely too a little fear.
“Already half the enemy are lost,” she said, her lilting elven voice enchanting after the shock of her gaze. “There are at most only fifty now attempting to crest the cliff before they advance upon Fallowmead. We have little time to prepare, and none to waste now on pretty speeches. Mark you well your headman’s words, and be ready to serve at a moment’s notice when you are called. Dress warm. And be ready to work through the night.”
With that, Elayeen stepped down from the table, and with Meeya and Valin, moved to a position by the doors.
“You heard the lady Ranger. Those of a mind to pack up and run, you’ll take nothing of Fallowmead’s with you, not cart, not wagon, nothing but the clothes on yer backs and tools and food of yer own making. And don’t be coming back! Rest of you good folks, slowly home, dress warm, get plenty of food ready, we got a day or two’s ‘ard work afore us and mebbe the one night left to do it in!”
Crellan hopped nimbly down the stairs and hurried to join Elayeen by the doors.
“I done what I could, lady Ranger, I hope it’s enough.”
“As do we, Serre Crellan. You have some bright lights here in Fallowmead. When I point them out to you, take them from the throng and have them wait again by the table if you please.”
“Aye, lady,” the headman agreed, though more than slightly puzzled by the request.
If there had been a pecking-order at the table, then it was maintained as the villagers began to leave. As they passed out through the doorway into the dull light of the grey afternoon, Elayeen gave an occasional nod, and a surprised individual was eased from the line and asked by Crellan to go and stand by the shearing tables. By the time the last of the villagers had left, there were six people standing confused and not a little worried in the gloomy interior.
Elayeen turned to Meeya, and nodded towards the horses standing idly outside the shed, and Meeya acknowledged the silent instruction, taking a position near the tables from where she could see the animals clearly through open doors.
There, at those tables, Elayeen folded her arms and eyed the five men and one woman she’d had drawn from the line, their lights brighter to her eldeneyes than all others in the village.
“Your name is Arbo, this I know,” she said to the skinny youth with the red hair.
“Aye, lady!” the young man beamed.
She smiled, and she turned her attention to the woman standing next to the youth. She was short, middle-aged, slightly plump, and had about her an air of authority which gave her a matriarchal aspect.
“My name is Eona,” she announced, “I am Healer of Fallowmead, though my daughter Emelda is also trained and bears her ring from Nordshear.”
“Honour to you, Healer Eona.”
“Fergal,” announced a wiry man in his early fifties. He was as short as Elayeen, and when he removed his hat out of respect, he revealed short-cropped grey hair through which he ran coarse and calloused fingers.
“Fergal is Master Carpenter of Fallowmead,” Crellan announced. “Built much of what you’ve seen today, lady Ranger.”
“Honour to you, Master Fergal, we shall have need of your skills.”
Fergal nodded, and looked more perplexed than worried, but said nothing.
“Urman,” a large, muscular young man introduced himself. “General ‘and, I be. Turn my ‘and to most things.”
“Good man, is Urman,” Crellan agreed. “Jack of all trades, master o’ none, but given a good go of it at most occupations in the village. Gets bored of it too quick though, once he has a job worked out.”
“Just like doin’ new things, is all,” the young man mumbled a protest, “Stead o’ the same old stuff day arter day marnin’ noon and night-time.”
“Well met, Urman.”
“Gwillam, I be, lady Ranger,” announced a rotund figure from behind an immense beard and mop of curly black hair. “Top scourman.”
Elayeen glanced at Crellan. “Ah, Gwillam’s the head man of the scourers. Falls to him to oversee the making of the soap, from burning o’ the wood for the potash right through to scouring o’ the wool.”
“Bit more to it than that, though,” Gwillam mumbled.
“I know, Gwill, I know, but the lady Ranger don’t need to know all the ins and outs of each of us occupations, now, does she?”
“Aye well, sorry…”
“Well met, Serre Gwillam.”
The last in the line was a stout man in his mid twenties, his head shaved close, a loose leather apron hanging around his neck, arms bare and covered in tiny welts and scars, the legacy of many small burns.
“There’s few in Fallowmead don’t know this fellow’s real name, lady Ranger, though it’s never used now. Chert Ardbinder, we calls ‘im. Firesmith he be, works with all manner o’ metals for us all. His old man carried the name too before we lost ‘im couple o’ years back, struck by lightning atop the roof o’ shed number two. His father before him, and so on back down the line, all our Firesmiths carry the name. Copper for the potash cauldrons, making o’ the quicklime in the kilns with Gwillam there. Hoops for the barrels, rims for the wheels, blades and springs for the shears, nails, bolts, you name it.”
The pock-marked young man nodded his head, and held Elayeen’s gaze, his manner uncertain, as if unsure whether to fall in love with the crop-headed and grubby elfin, or to resent her for the threat to his hearth and home.
“Honour to you, Master Firesmith.”
He nodded again, and the introductions complete, Elayeen turned to Crellan, and then moved to stand at the edge of the table, eyeing its well-scrubbed surface. It was a working table, unadorned but worn smooth over the years and kept clean. She reached down and drew her boot knife, and began speaking as she lightly used its point to scratch a crude map into the surface of the wood.
“This is the eastern flank of your village, and this the stream flowing there which will serve as a border for my purposes. Here,” she scratched, “To the left of this map, are the two shearing sheds. The enemy will muster atop the cliffs, and there they shall eat well on spit-roasted sheep. Your sheep. When they have recovered their strength from the climb out of the cove, and when their dark master determines the time is appropriate, they will attack.”
They gathered around, crowding in a little, the better to see their doom as Elayeen carved i
t into the surface of the wood.
“They are Meggen, for the most part. Barbarians, bred for violence and war, and if they fear anything at all, it is the dark wizard who commands them. From the trees atop the eastern slope, here,” and she gouged an arc in the table-top, “They will look down upon Fallowmead, and see their prey. Then, they will rush headlong these eight hundred yards or more down the slope, screaming their battle-cry of ‘Yattar!’, and sweep up this track straight into your village, slaughtering everything that moves. And they will not stop, until they can no longer find something to kill here.
“There is no reasoning with them. There is a look in their eyes, put there by the darkest of shepherds who bred and raised them for centuries. It is a look which seems to say, Do I kill you now, or am I hungry? Let us hope the meal in their camp atop the cliffs is a large one. Now…”
Elayeen began to tap the point of her knife into the table, twirling it a little, cutting little dimples into the wood to the east of the border of the village she had marked earlier.
“… We must at all costs prevent the Meggen from entering the village, and to that end, I have chosen all of you to be my officers, and to lead the people in the work that lies before us if we are to succeed. First, the wagons and carts stowed in their neat ranks between the shearing sheds are to be taken out, and positioned thus, forming a V, spreading out eastwards from the edge of the village here. In the wagons must be placed the bales of wool you have yonder. These must be split open, and the wool soaked with whatever flammable oils and spirits there are here in Fallowmead.”
“The wool?” Arbo gasped, surprising himself as well as the others with his outburst. “All of it?”
