Patricia Briggs

by The Hob's Bargain

  A soft lullaby filled my head. The breeze died, but the cradle still rocked. I watched as a mother sang her babe to sleep. The dead woman looked up at me and smiled—a simple, uncomplicated smile—and raised a finger to her lips, protecting the sleep of a child who would never awaken.

  I walked out of the house and shut the door gently behind me with a hand that shook. It hadn’t felt like a vision.

  Sweat gathered on the small of my back. I knew I should have gone on and searched for the larder, but it was beyond me. Perhaps Kith could have done it, but not even the power of old taunts was going to make me go into another house.

  Kith came out of a house on the other side of the narrow lane, and looked at me. Something in my face must have shown how I felt, because he crossed the street and frowned.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Well,” I answered, smiling grimly, “at least we know we don’t have to search for babies left unattended. The one in there was only a few days old, and the spell took it as surely as it took larger creatures.” I decided not to mention the ghost.

  Kith closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “I have enough food for the journey if there aren’t many more people than it appears. What you have should fill in the gaps.” He gave me a look that told me what he had found hadn’t been much better, then he chose to change the subject. Soldiers were probably good at avoiding unbearable things. “I see you found a crossbow.”

  I gave it to him, and he looked it over closely before returning it. “Steel bow,” he said. “They’re expensive. My own is a composite, easier to draw but less range. Most of the weapons like this belong to noblemen—Moresh has one. I wouldn’t have thought a town this size would have a weapon of such quality. It’s too bad we can’t use it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He set the bow on the ground, holding onto the stock first, then bracing it against his shoulder. He ran a finger down the stock and showed me two black metal pegs, one on each side.

  “This was meant for a goatsfoot. You’ll not be able to draw it by hand.”

  “A what?” I asked, trying to picture how a goat’s foot would help to draw a bow.

  “Goatsfoot,” he repeated. “It’s a device that you hook under the string and over the pins.” He fingered the pegs he’d shown me. They didn’t look like pins to me. “Then you pull it back. The extra leverage allows you to draw the bow.”

  I opened the leather bag and pulled out the contraption it held. “Is this one?”

  He took it from me. “That makes this bow a lot more useful.” Kneeling, he pressed the toe of his boot to the bow, holding it steady as he showed me how the goatsfoot cocked the bow.

  The back of my neck crawled suddenly, and I glanced behind me. But the houses all stood empty.

  THE SUN WAS LOW IN THE SKY WHEN WE FINALLY SET out from Auberg. It had taken longer than I’d expected to collect the two men who were out. Then the Beresforders had a bunch of livestock—cattle, sheep, pigs, mules, and a few horses (including Danci’s dun)—in a larger paddock behind the inn. At least Wandel had worked the magic of his charm on the Beresforders: there wasn’t a grumble among them at the hurry. And everyone except Danci avoided me as if I had the pox.

  Once we set out on the road, the animals gave us little trouble, seeming almost as relieved as I to leave Auberg’s shadows behind them. By the time we reached the lower slopes of the Hob, the children began to play and laugh.

  Danci deposited her youngest in Kith’s lap without asking and rode her horse to me.

  “I hadn’t realized what it was doing to us, staying there among the dead,” she said.

  I watched Kith struggle to hold the squirming toddler in front of him and guide Torch at the same time. But, interestingly enough, he didn’t try to give the boy back.

  “It would be enough to give anyone the creeps,” I agreed with a smile.

  I’d noticed the lift in my own spirits when we rode out of the valley. Comparing the rascal who held Torch’s reins while Kith held him with the mopey, whiny child at the inn, I thought it was more than just the silent town that held us in thrall.

  “Gram always said death magic leaves its mark on the land.”

  “Death magic?” asked Danci softly.

  I nodded. “I don’t think Auberg is a healthy place to be.”

  THE HOB HEARD THEM BEFORE HE SAW THEM.REFUGEES, he thought, watching the ragtag bunch climb out of the shadow-shrouded valley. Looking past them, he wondered what had caused the fog of ill that grew thicker as it stretched away from the mountain. Bits and pieces still clung stubbornly to the party riding onto his mountain.

  He was exhilarated from the chase he’d given the pack of grims—they wouldn’t be coming back to his mountain anytime soon. He rather regretted that; truth be told, they made great sport. He wished there were another pack around—he was in the mood to play.

  The big horse the woman called Aren rode saw him and whickered a greeting, though the one-armed man’s dun gelding, who saw him as well, chose to ignore him. Aren looked hollow-eyed and tired.

  As suddenly as that, he decided to give her something to think about that might take the shadows from her eyes. He skittered down the tree and wandered among the riders. The knowledge that either Aren or the warrior—both touched by magic—might detect him added to the fun.

  Just yesterday he wouldn’t have been able to hide himself from any of them in the bright light of day, but the mountain was waking up from its long sleep.

  The hob rubbed the red gelding’s chest and slapped him lightly on the haunch as he passed, sending him bouncing forward a few steps. Half-fey herself, the minstrel’s white mare cast a merry glance and snorted at him. He grinned back. Mischief that mare was, much like himself.

  Toward the back of the party, an aging herd dog limped soberly at the side of an old man on a mule. The old man kept up a constant reassuring murmur that belied the worry on his face. Worry he should, for the hob could see the shadow that clung to the dog’s tail and hindquarters. The dark of the valley beyond had used the animal’s age and infirmities to attach itself like a burr.

  The hob stooped and ruffled the dog’s fur, washing it free of shadow—and managed to clear a bit of the age-related problems as well. The dog whined his appreciation and rolled in the hob’s embrace, licking his face with frantic gratitude. Dogs were like that.

  “Here, now, Cary, what’s up with you?” The man stopped his mule.

  At the sound of his master’s voice the dog threw himself out of the hob’s care and leaped up to lick at the mounted man’s hands before taking off to run a frantic circle around the entire group—for all the world as if he’d not been a trained cattle dog for a decade. The hob laughed, and one of the two spotted milk cows answered him.

  Grinning, the hob turned to see the one-armed one approach him as surely as if he could see him. The child who rode in front of the grim warrior saw the hob quite clearly, of course. The babe clapped his hands and caroled encouragements so clearly that the hob’s smile widened in answer. Here was a child after his own heart. He did a couple of back flips for his audience of one, then turned his attention to the soldier.

  This close he could see the workings of the bloodmage the harper had spoken of yesterday while the hob spied upon them—though he couldn’t tell how deeply the damage went. Whatever had been done to the man made him aware that the hob was there. The taint of the bloodmage made the hob more wary than he might otherwise have been. He’d never feared humans, but the bloodmages had taught him a bitter lesson in caution.

  The one-armed man set the child with gentle firmness in the arms of a nearby rider. One of the cows, deciding this halt might last a while, began grazing. The bloodmage’s warrior approached warily, drawing his iron sword—as if even cold iron could hurt a son of the mountain here.

  Experimentally, the hob crouched, and the dun’s ears followed his descent—a moment later the soldier’s attention focused downward.

  If a child of five or
six hadn’t begun to cry—soft, tired sounds of a soul pushed beyond enduring—the hob might have gotten caught up in the fun. Wariness only added spice to the play. But these were good folk, entitled to the mountain’s protection. He darted silently to the sobbing girl, who was riding by herself on a pony led by a man who might have been her father.

  The shadow upon her wasn’t strong enough to do her harm; likely it would leave as soon as she’d spent a night on the mountain. Still, it was easy enough to banish it.

  He couldn’t resist a last dash through the middle of the group, tugging gently on the dun’s tail as he swept by. If the war-bred gelding’s feet were quicker than most—well, then he had only to dodge a little quicker yet. Aren’s big horse stretched his nose out for a pat before he left.

  “WHAT IN FARAN’S NAME IS GOING ON?” EXCLAIMED one of the old men, the worry in his voice finding its echo in the shivers that crept up my spine. “I’ve never seen animals act like that.”

  Kith watched his horse’s ears a moment, then sheathed his sword and said thoughtfully, “It must have been a wildling of some kind. It didn’t smell of bloodmagic, but no natural creature runs about invisible. I don’t think it did any harm.”

  The old herdsman had dismounted from his mule and was rubbing his dog, to the dog’s great delight. After Kith spoke, he nodded. “The opposite, I would think. I haven’t seen Cary look so well since he caught cold last winter. I was worried I’d have to put him down before we reached Fallbrook—now look at him.”

  To demonstrate, he threw his arm out and gave three sharp whistles. The black and white dog took off at a dead run, aiming for a pig that had taken advantage of the stop to ease away from the rest and root at the base of an old ash tree. The dog drove the protesting pig back with the bunch.

  I watched, and felt something I’d taken from Auberg—fear, perhaps, but more atavistic than that—lose its fell grip on my shoulders. Melodramatic, but that’s what it felt like.

  “Shall we go on?” asked Ice. “Or do you think we should go back to Auberg?”

  The old herdsman coughed and spat, then said, “Onward. Wish whatever it was had given me a bit of what he gave that old dog.” He glanced around at the rest of us. “I’d almost forgotten it, but my great-aunt was from Fallbrook. When I was just a tadpole, she used to tell me stories of this mountain. Said that if you left a bit of food out for the wild folk, they’d keep the creepy-crawlies away.”

  He shrugged and started his mule in the direction we’d been headed. One by one the others followed him.

  As he passed me, he doffed his cap. “It’s good to remember there is magic that heals as well as the wraiths and whatnot we’ve been fighting for the past few days.”

  He meant me. When I smiled at him, he smiled back.

  After the rest had gone on, Kith rode to my side. “It’s still here,” he said.

  I nodded, watching Duck stare at an oak tree not too far from where we stood. “Do you think we should we be worried?”

  Kith shrugged. “If it healed that dog, it stands to reason that it could have hurt any of us equally well. I suspect we’re safe enough.”

  “But we’ll leave some food out for it tonight,” I said, thinking about the bit of meat and bread I’d left at the house in Auberg.

  He squinted at the shadows under the oak. “I suspect we will.”

  SUMMER

  THE GROWING SEASON

  FIVE

  Sticks clattered together like an odd sort of music, much faster than I’d have thought possible when I started this a couple of months ago. Ah, missed one—this was going to hurt.

  “Ouch,” I said, stumbling backward out of further harm’s way. I would miss the one aimed at my jaw.

  Manta stepped closer to see the damage. “I mistimed my pattern,” he apologized. “Are you all right, luv?”

  “She’s fine,” said Ice, his brother, coming up behind me. “Raiders don’t fight in patterns, anyway. If all you learn is patterns, you might as well be dancing.” Despite his brisk words, he pulled my hand away from my face so he could inspect the welt. “Time to put the sticks up anyway. Practice is over.”

  I glanced around. Sure enough, Koret was stepping up to the upturned manger that served as a podium in the barn. I set my sticks in the open-ended barrel with a dozen others.

  My knapsack was nearby with the crossbow next to it. I was still a beginner with the sticks, but at least I’d been a natural with the crossbow. Though, as Kith observed dryly, it wasn’t that hard, just point and shoot. I just pointed better than others. It didn’t hurt that the steel bow shot farther than any of the village crossbows, almost as far as Koret’s longbow.

  By the time I came to the podium, practice had pretty much ended; Ice hadn’t been the only one who’d noticed Koret. We were a scruffy-looking lot gathered around the front of the barn.

  There were four Beresforders in our group, including Manta and his blue-eyed brother, Ice—whose real name, I had learned, was Eannise. Ice had been made an elder to represent Beresford, though I’m not certain I wasn’t older than he was. Manta was older, I knew—but there was something about Ice that made him a man others would follow.

  The Beresforders were easy to pick out because, other than Kith and me, the Fallbrook patrollers were boys—the ones who were too old to be content shuffling around town with the women and children, yet not old enough to guard the lands against the raiders.

  The far fields had been abandoned more than a month ago; they were too vulnerable to the bandits’ attack. We’d fallen back to protecting just the near fields, most of which were grazing lands and vegetable gardens. There wasn’t enough grain produced on the land that was left to feed the village through the winter.

  A month ago Merewich ordered the two bridges across the river guarded day and night, without actually saying he intended to claim the lord’s fields for the village. Hard on his announcement, Albrin—whose lands had been among those abandoned—took over guarding the eastern bridge by Fell Lake, relocating his horses to the lord’s grazing fields bordering the swamps. He, his hirelings, and a number of newly homeless men moved into a hay storage barn over the objections of the steward.

  “All right now, lads,” said Koret in a voice that would have carried over ocean waves. “You know there’s been a movement afoot to restrict our patrols to the near fields we are actually guarding. I’ve talked to Merewich, and we’ve come up with a few alternatives, so for now your routes are the same. New orders are that if you see a group larger than five raiders, come in directly to report.”

  “What if they try to hit the town?” Someday I needed to learn how Ice could make his soft voice heard so easily over the shuffling noises of the group. “We lost ten men in that raid on Lyntle’s—”

  “Eleven,” someone added, “Lyntle’s son died this afternoon.”

  Ice nodded but continued without pause. “And at least that many more are injured. That leaves us with less than sixty fighting men in town if the patrols stay as they are.”

  Koret nodded his agreement. “We’ve talked to the steward, and the remnants of Lord Moresh’s fighting men—there are twenty of them—are staying in the village as of today. They’re being mixed with the teams of guards we already have, so there’ll be someone with experience fighting in each team. I’ve pulled Kith from patrol to train them. I don’t have time now. As you might have heard, I’ve begun an afternoon training session to teach some of our women how to defend themselves.” He grinned, adding, “Some of the nastiest pirates I’ve ever known have been women. Look at Aren.”

  I stuck out my tongue at Ice when he cowered away from me.

  “There’s a couple of those old beldams I wouldn’t want to tangle with,” commented someone fervently.

  “Women are sneaky,” added another.

  “Can we defend ourselves against them?” asked a boy.

  “I’ve never managed to,” admitted Manta. “But I’ve never minded losing, much.”

  The boy pu
zzled it out, then flushed. “I mean, can we defend ourselves against the bandits?” He blushed again when his untrustworthy voice cracked on the last word.

  The people shifted uncomfortably. No one else would have asked the question, but we all waited to hear Koret’s answer. Koret knew these things. He had experience.

  The old pirate smiled serenely. “Of course.” His eyes, I noticed, were very tired. “Aren, stay a moment. The rest of you to your patrols.”

  He waited until the others had left the barn before he said anything. “Touched Banar was killed last night.”

  “I know,” I said. The smith’s brother had been a gentle soul, if simple. I hadn’t spoken to him much, but he’d been a fixture at the smithy.

  “The official story is that the raiders caught him. Kith found him. He and Merewich brought the body back to the smith. Then Kith came to me and asked me to tell you to stay out of town as much as possible.”

  “Me?” I asked, surprised.

  “You haven’t been around town much anyway,” Koret said, scuffing a bit of loose straw with the side of his boot. “You might not have heard…. There’s a group, the last priest’s staunchest followers for the most part, who are becoming rabid about anything smelling of magic. They claim it’s the village’s wickedness that caused the One God’s anger and shook the world.”

  I smiled without amusement, then stopped when it hurt my jaw. I’d forgotten Manta’d hit me. “I know about them. My brother by marriage is one of them. Kith thinks they’re responsible for Banar’s death? Because of the old tales about changelings?”

  Koret met my eyes, not speaking a word.

  “I’ll stay out of town.”

  THE SUMMER NIGHT WAS RICH WITH THE SOUNDS OF THE creatures who haunted the dark. Crickets sang from the fields, answered by the frogs in the nearby creek.