by R. S. Ford
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, rushing forward and taking his arm, careful to hold it firmly but gently. He stopped and looked down at her.
‘I understand how you feel,’ he said. ‘I understand how confused you must be. I understand why you’re angry.’
‘I know,’ she said, placing her hand gently on his chest. She smiled at him, knowing that Garvin did not understand. How could he know what she saw in her dreams? How could he ever understand the thrill? How she fed off the feelings of might, of power? She could never tell him of it, could never make him understand. And even if she tried it would only make him think her more inhuman than he already did. That was the last thing Silver wanted.
He stared into her eyes, as though seeing something in them he had never seen before. ‘You know I’ve fallen—’
She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him close, kissing him firmly before he could say anything else. There was no reason for him to say the words. No reason for either of them to speak.
23
FENN sat on Silver’s lap, reading from one of Garvin’s tattered books. She marvelled at his skill with the words – only six summers and able to read so quickly and deftly. Silver could hardly decipher a single word. Whatever she had been before she arrived at the Longfeather farm it had not been a scribe.
Though the boys would always be farmers out in this grim land, Garvin had still seen the importance of them learning their letters and sums. Less chance they’d be swindled when they made the trip to the trader’s post in Stafkarl. If it was known the Longfeather boys were educated, even just knew how to read, it would put them above most of the other farmers and traders in the Kantor region.
‘Do you want a go?’ Fenn asked suddenly, stopping his story and looking up at her curiously.
Silver smiled. ‘I’m no good with the letters,’ she said. ‘But I like listening to you.’
‘I could teach you,’ he said. Silver found herself giving him a tender squeeze at that. Fenn’s nature was sweet, an oasis in this harsh, unforgiving place, and it filled her with a warmth she would never have been able to describe even if she’d known all the words in all the books of the world.
Before she could tell Fenn how pointless it was, he climbed down off her knee and hurried to a chest in the corner of the room. It opened with a creak and he began to rummage inside. Finally he found what he was looking for and turned. Silver saw he held a piece of parchment in his hand along with a tattered feather and a bottle of ink.
‘Fenn, I’m not sure that—’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, hurrying back to stand beside her. ‘Da doesn’t use it for nothing.’ He placed the parchment before her on the table. ‘He’ll like it if you learn your letters.’
Fenn twisted the lid off the bottle of ink and placed it down carefully, afraid of spilling the precious black liquid. Silver could only imagine how expensive it was, feeling a sudden flash of admiration at Garvin’s investment in his sons.
‘Start with ‘A’. Then we’ll go through the rest.’ He carefully dipped the quill and handed it to her, staring in anticipation.
Silver felt the futility of this in her gut, but she took the quill anyway. She stared at the parchment, realising she had no idea what an ‘A’ looked like.
Fenn picked up the book they had been reading and pointed to one of the letters.
‘That one,’ he said helpfully.
Silver replicated it on the parchment as best she could, feeling a sense of satisfaction when she had it almost right.
Fenn made an encouraging noise and said, ‘Do a ‘B’ now.’
Again he pointed at a letter in the book, and again Silver drew the sigil on the parchment. On they went, working their way through the alphabet with Fenn growing more eager with every letter. For her part, Silver found it easier as they worked through the letters, focusing on replicating each one. And with each letter she seemed to glean some kind of strange understanding… perhaps a memory, perhaps a knowledge she had kept hidden.
When they reached the final letter, Fenn gave a little clap of his hands. ‘Now try a word,’ he said. ‘Try writing “cat” or something.’
He took a seat at the other side of the table as Silver stared at the parchment. Then she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, thinking of the letters that would make up the word.
She dipped the quill in the ink once more and pressed it to the parchment. Her hand seemed to move of its own accord, the ink marking sigils, swirling across the page as though the quill had a mind of its own. Silver wrote from instinct, the words coming fast, the quill scratching its way across the yellowed paper, the script spidery.
When she had finished, a verse was written on the parchment in no language she could understand. She very much doubted it said ‘cat’.
‘What’s that?’ Fenn asked, frowning at the strange words on the paper.
‘I—’ she stopped at the sound of Garvin’s footsteps on the porch.
Silver stood, grasping the parchment and its strange verse and crumpling it in her fist. There was no need for Garvin to see what she had done – he was curious enough about her past without this adding to his confusion. And besides, she had no answers; the words were a mystery.
Garvin entered, his face grave. Fenn stood to greet his father.
‘Da,’ said the boy. ‘You should see what Silver—’
‘Fenn, go and play,’ Garvin said.
The boy turned to look at Silver but she said nothing, glad that Garvin had stopped his son before he could say anymore. Without a sound Fenn walked from the kitchen and out into the sunshine.
‘What is it?’ Silver asked, reading Garvin’s troubled expression.
‘The crop is failing,’ he said, the gravity of it clearly weighing heavy on his shoulders. ‘We might be able to sell about half, but the rest is rotten. We’ll need to burn it all. I can’t tell if it’s some kind of pestilence, but we’re in trouble.’
Silver crossed the kitchen, putting her arms around him. ‘It’s still early in the season,’ she said. ‘We could plant another crop.’
‘It’ll be hard work,’ he replied.
‘Neither of us is a stranger to that. And the boys will do everything they can to help.’
Garvin nodded. ‘Maybe if we can sell what we have in Stafkarl there’ll be enough grain to plant a new crop.’
‘It’ll be all right.’ Silver raised her hand, placing her palm against his cheek. Her other hand held tight to the parchment crumpled within it.
Garvin smiled. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right. As long as I have you.’
They kissed, and she felt him relax as her lips touched his.
‘I’ll take what we have to market,’ she said. ‘We both know I’m the strongest.’
Garvin opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. He knew she was right.
‘I’ll pack the cart,’ he said. ‘You should put some supplies together for the trip.’ He made to walk away then turned back to her. ‘Just remember not to let Oynar swindle you on the price.’
She smiled at him as he made his way towards the barn. She still held the crumpled parchment in her fist, but there was no time to wonder about the mystery of the foreign words she’d written.
There were more pressing matters.
* * *
Stafkarl was busier than Silver expected. As she pulled the cart into the street, piled high with maize, there was a bustle about the place that surprised her.
Men and women rushed across the main thoroughfare, kicking up dust in their wake, seeming not to see Silver as she made her way towards the trading post. Several times she had to stop rather than trip over a panicked settler. And everywhere she looked there seemed to be militia roaming the streets. No wonder brigands were roaming free to pillage outlying settlements when all the fighting men were here, guarding the dust.
Silver left the cart and its payload – with everyone in such a panic it was doubtful someone would make the effo
rt to steal a pile of crops. The door to the trading post creaked open as she pushed it, and a bell jangled as she entered then let the door sweep shut behind her. She waited in the quiet, but the traders who owned the place didn’t appear.
‘Hello?’ she shouted.
There was movement somewhere, before a small man appeared, red-faced and flustered.
‘What do you want?’
Silver guessed this was the ‘Oynar’ Garvin had warned her about.
‘I have wares to trade,’ she said.
The man seemed to grow angry. ‘Are you mad? You want to make a trade now? Everyone’s leaving the outpost. You should do the same.’
‘Leaving? Why?’ she asked.
‘You haven’t heard? Raiders are abroad,’ said the old man. ‘Reports from all along the eastern extent, from the foot of the Crooked Jaw to Ardenstone. Half a dozen farms burned to ash.’ He paused, eyes growing weary. ‘No survivors.’
Silver stared. A feeling of sickness rose up within her. The Longfeather farm was on the eastern extent. She took a step back from the counter, the periphery of her vision blurring.
White wings flecked with blood, a scream of pain matched by one of triumph. Her throat was hoarse with the effort of it. Red eyes burned with hate. Death lay all around, carcasses pledged in victory.
Silver inhaled sharply, staggering back.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the old man.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her breath coming quick.
She staggered back further, fumbling at the door handle before wrenching it open. The little bell jangled once more in her wake as she tumbled out onto the porch and stumbled down the stairs.
The street was still busy as she took a deep breath. No one gave her a second glance.
Her head throbbed with a burning pain, as though blood ran molten behind her eyes. Vision blurred at the edges, a scene of violence she couldn’t quite focus on.
‘You there.’
Silver turned at the voice, squinting to see who had spoken. A grey-haired man atop his horse, staring angrily. She recognised him through the cloud of fog at the edge of her eyes… Hedren.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Where are Garvin and the boys? They need to get to safety.’
‘I… They…’
Silver staggered, steadying herself against the cart.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Hedren, struggling to keep control of his horse. The beast seemed agitated in Silver’s presence, its eyes wide, nostrils snorting its disquiet.
Blackness.
There was a scream in Silver’s head. The pain of it was so intense she grasped at her hair with numb fingers.
Garvin. The boys. A feeling of cold dread piercing her like a spear.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ barked Hedren. ‘I asked you a—’
Silver reached forward, the pain in her head relenting in that instant of motion. She pulled Hedren from his saddle, the cloth of his shirt tearing as he was sent crashing into the cart behind her.
The horse reared, squealing in panic, ready to bolt. Silver grasped the reins, dragging the beast’s head down. She stared into its eye and they were locked in each other’s gaze. The stallion stopped its mewling, muscles quivering in fear, letting out a single snort from its nostrils.
Then she leaped up onto its back, her feet finding the stirrups, heels kicking its flanks. It bolted along the street and Silver felt herself relax into the rhythm of its run as though she had ridden a thousand horses through the desert. It was a memory she could not quite grasp, as though it floated in her periphery.
But the mystery of it didn’t matter now.
Her family was in danger.
She had to reach the farm in time.
24
THE horse was faltering, snorting and stumbling beneath her, but she urged it on. Her heels dug deep into the creature’s flanks if it tried to slow and she could see the fear in its wide-open eyes, sense the terror at having her atop its back.
Silver could not relent, could not allow the beast any respite, even if she rode it into the dirt.
As she saw smoke drifting on the horizon her panic and fear intensified. The Longfeather farm was aflame. Garvin and the boys were in terrible danger.
Silver kicked frantically at the horse. She could hear every one of its laboured pants and smell the stench of its salty hide. The animal was close to falling but its fear of her kept it moving. Silver could barely understand the power she had over the beast but she was not about to question it.
As the horse crested the rise to the Longfeather farm it gave a last pained whinny, forelegs buckling. It tumbled to the ground and Silver deftly rolled clear, coming to her feet and sprinting over the rise.
A scene of horror confronted her. The farmhouse and store shed were still burning, though the embers were low. On the hill, beside the recently ploughed field, lay their mule, its entrails strewn about, head half lopped off, blood drying in the dust.
Silver reached the bottom of the hill and in her panic she lost her footing, stumbling to her knees. She stopped, pausing for air, her breath coming as short and sharp as that of the steed that had carried her from the outpost.
Despite the horror, she had to stay in control. The bandits could still be in the area and still be eager for a fight. If the boys were still alive, if there was any chance she might rescue them, she had to keep her head.
Slowly Silver rose to her feet, hands shaking as she looked around the devastated farm. She walked past the farmhouse, and didn’t have to go far before she spotted Garvin’s body.
All thoughts of control suddenly fled. A cry of anguish left her throat as she rushed forward, crossing the hard earth until she was within five yards of him. Then she stopped.
He lay on his front, head skewed to one side, the blood having pooled, then dried, beneath him in a dark halo. Silver felt her jaw clamp shut as she took a step toward him, his once-shining eyes staring at her blankly. She knew he was dead, there was nothing she could do for him now, but still she had to touch him.
As she crouched down beside her lover’s corpse all she could think was that she would never feel him against her again, never hear his impassioned whisper in her ear, and she reached out her hand towards him.
Memories flashed through her mind as she touched his bare skin; not her memories, or memories of a dream of battling demons in a distant land. These were something else…
Garvin brought the scythe down in a steady rhythm, sweeping the sheaf of maize in two, every stroke at the same level. He looked out over the field, the mid-morning sun beating down, making him squint. Not far to go and he would be finished. One more row and the field would be done.
A footstep through the scythed maize. Garvin turned: a bearded face, pocked skin, eyes wide and dark. A weapon, raised high.
Garvin brought up the scythe, catching the blade on its haft with a dull clank. His attacker hissed. Garvin clouted the wild man against the jaw, sending him reeling and he stumbled, losing his footing on the uneven earth and tumbling to the dirt.
He lay on the ground, staring up, angry and desperate, all yellow teeth and viciousness. Garvin thought about letting him run away, letting him live. He had never killed a man before and didn’t want to start now, so late in life.
On the ridge above his farm, Garvin saw more figures coming… running. Raiders.
Garvin raised his scythe high and brought it down. The blade sheared through flesh, burying itself in the bandit’s chest. He abandoned it, turning, desperate, sprinting back towards the farmhouse.
The boys came running at his panicked cries. He screamed at them both, howling at them to flee. It crushed his heart to see the looks on their faces but they had to run. Their fear might be the only thing that could save them.
As his sons ran in the opposite direction, Garvin stopped. They would not be able to run far enough through the desert before the bandits caught them. Garvin knew he had to buy his boys time.
He turned; even with no weapon he was determined to harry the bandits as much as he could, even if it meant his—
The blade cut deep into his side. The bandit stared at him as he twisted the knife and Garvin’s breath came out in a long pained sigh. This raider did not look wild or manic. His face was shaved, one eye glassy from the scar that ran down from forehead to cheek.
He drew out the blade slowly, and Garvin felt every last inch. He wanted to fight but all the strength had left him. On his knees he could do nothing but watch as the bandits raced after his sons, two of them stopping to kick in the door to the farmhouse.
Up on the ridge he could just see his boys running before he pitched forward into the dirt. The blood ebbed from his body. There was nothing he could do to stop it…
Silver reeled from the vision, sobbing into the dirt. Her hand trembled over Garvin’s body but she dare not touch him again lest it show her more.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stood. She had to find the boys.
Garvin had last seen them fleeing towards the ridge and she turned, seeing the sun about to drop beyond the rise. Her feet stumbled through the dirt as she moved. In the wan light she could just make out tracks in the dust, tracing a path where the boys had run.
Her stumble steadied, turning into a run, then into a sprint, as she raced up the rise. Silver could only hope there was some sign the boys had escaped, but deep in her heart she knew that was impossible. As she crested the rise, Darrick’s body lay on its back staring up at the darkening sky.
Silver’s hand clamped to her mouth to stifle a cry of anguish. She advanced slowly then crouched beside him, the tears running freely. All thoughts for her own safety had fled. All she had left was grief.
Darrick was dead. But what of Fenn?
She scanned the hilltop. There was no sign of the youngest Longfeather. Then she looked down at Darrick.
Kneeling beside him she reached out a hand to touch his cooling flesh…
Fenn’s hand was hot and clammy but Darrick grasped it tight all the same. He’d never seen such fear in his father’s eyes, never heard him bark so angrily, so desperately.
