Horded - Kingdom Gone Book 2, page 6
She left her room open, had little choice but to climb over the ruins of her door and pray no one searched under her bed while she was out. Innkeeper Simpson had already made it clear she’d be paying for the damage and, most likely, out of a door until the debt was settled. Privacy would require a sheet taken out of her own bedding. He wouldn’t spare even a slip of cloth for her, and she hadn’t expected anything less.
She slunk from the inn after the moon had gone, just a few hours before dawn when the chances were slimmest that she’d encounter a soul in the streets, despite the night’s excitement. Ramstown only had one, long road. Unlike Westwood, which had been neatly arranged in blocks around the town square, her new home rambled and stretched along the winding street that led from the foothills to the mountain lake. Beyond that, only deer trails and overgrown remnants of the passes of the Old Kingdoms remained. Nobody crossed the mountains now. There was no reason and nothing on the other side that couldn’t be found on this one.
The jail was situated downhill from the inn, almost to the edge of town, as a reminder for those few strangers who wandered this far up that law existed in Ramstown. Even if the building bore a freshly painted Shade sigil over the door, justice still ruled in the local, slightly biased, view.
It had ruled enough tonight to ensure the gobelin made it safely to the inside of a cell. The mayor, his son and the men of the town had all wandered home for the night. Maera had few illusions about tomorrow, however.
No lights flickered inside the building, but she didn’t doubt that Molton Fayer watched over his prisoner tonight. He never left a full cell unguarded, and she spared a twinge of concern for young Jaymi left alone tonight with gobelins on the loose in town. The boy did need a mother, though Fayer had done a fair job of filling both roles. He needed one, but no matter how wicked-hearted it made her, that mother could not be her.
She rapped softly on the door. The jail had been built from local timber, but the years it stood had taken a toll on it. The boards parted and cracked, and the paint peeled more than it stuck, revealing previous attempts at preservation underneath. Her soft knocking dislodged even more flakes and managed to rouse the man inside.
He stepped to the door with boots shuffling and a soft grumble of conversation meant primarily for himself. She didn’t catch much aside from “time” and “Devil,” and she assumed the last referred to her. Tonight, perhaps, that label fit.
The door clattered when he opened it. Maera stepped away and waited. He’d had no lights on, and she could see very little aside from Molton Fayer’s sleepy expression poking out into the moonlight.
“I’m so sorry to wake you.” She spoke first, had worked on her story during the walk and halfway here, while passing Widow Fatfriar’s pigpen, she had formulated the bare bones of a plan. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Maera?” He squinted and leaned farther out of the doorway. His eyes fluttered and then widened. He stood up and brushed a quick hand through his hair. “What the devil are you doing out at this hour?”
“I’m afraid.” She stooped to a level she hadn’t visited in years, widened her eyes and shifted her legs so that her skirts swooshed gently from side to side. “There were two of them, Molton. What if the other one comes back? What if this one gets loose? I can’t sleep without knowing it’s locked up and secure.”
“Hmm.”
She didn’t know if that held suspicion or sympathy, but he nodded and pushed the door all the way open. He had no candle burning and the main room was pitch black only a step beyond the entrance. Maera went in gingerly and with her hands out to check for obstructions. She heard a faint squeal from the street, inhaled and waited, but Fayer shut the door and blocked out the sound. The latch clicked and his boots vibrated the floorboards.
“Did you hear something just then?” She could see his outline, a blacker shadow against the already dark room.
“Maera.”
“I think I heard something.”
“It’s been ten years since I lost my wife.”
She heard the boards creak and slid to her right on instinct. Something brushed against her arm and the desk thumped. His voice lowered and took on a sleepy guile that she’d have never placed in his repertoire. In the dark, in his jail room, Molton Fayer adopted a whole new persona.
“That’s a long time for a man to be alone. My boy said…” The boards gave him away again and she scooted fast in the direction she hoped led to the exit. Fayer’s arm snagged her cloak, however, and she fell back into an invisible grip. “Don’t play, girl.”
His breath whispered against her hair. She smelled sweet whiskey on it. Whiskey meant trouble. She’d learned that the hard way more than once. The knife in her skirt would prick him back to sober, but it would also cost her any chance at manipulating him into leaving her alone in his jail. Maera’s brain whirled for a new plan and came up empty.
Molton’s arms drew her back. He pulled her into his chest. He’d turn her around next. She’d have only a few seconds to decide to draw the dagger. Another squeal punctuated the silence. Fayer’s arms shifted and Maera’s hands moved to her waistband.
Someone yelled outside. Boots pattered against the street and more squealing, lots more, screamed past.
“What was that?”
“Pigs.” Widow Fatfriar’s pigs to be exact. “It sounds like pigs.”
“Fayer! Get out here!” A man’s voice, probably whoever owned the closest garden.
Molton growled in her ear and released her. His steps clomped to the door and a sliver of light tore a slash in the black backdrop. Maera saw him outlined in the doorway. He pulled his hat from the blackness and stuffed it onto his head, looking at his boots while another hog streaked past, screaming its freedom cry.
“Stay here.” It was almost a question.
“Yes.” She gave him a lie, prayed it would convince him to go, to leave her alone and up to her own mischief.
“You’ll be safe inside.” From anyone except him. From anyone who didn’t intend to claim her as his town wife. He pulled the door shut behind him. Maera sagged and let out a long breath. If tonight had taught her anything, it was that she’d never marry the jailor. For Jaymi she’d be sorry, but not ever for Molton Fayer.
Once he’d tramped into the street, once she’d heard his voice join the others outside, Maera stumbled toward the desk. He kept a candle lamp on top and should have lit it when she knocked. Now she’d have to fumble for it and for his flint as well. The desk struck her across the thighs, stopping her mid shuffle. She explored the surface carefully, found the lamp and her luck when an attached thong provided the flint igniter.
She struck that against the lamp’s base and jumped when blue flame exploded from its tip. It sparkled in her hand, illuminating the desk, the lamp and the neat sigils engraved in the igniter’s side. A Tinker device. Molton Fayer was just as guilty as the weaver’s wife of consorting with the Gentry.
There wasn’t time to wonder over it. She lit the candle and turned her attention to the only other door in the jail. It led to the back room, to the double cells that served Ramstown’s low crime rate and currently held one wounded gobelin.
Maera paused outside. She closed her eyes and felt the faint thrum of the spell he’d cast on her. She knew it now, knew that the rhythm connected them. How or why, she couldn’t begin to guess, but it lent confidence to her steps, that knowing, when she lifted the lamp and strode through to face the prisoner.
He’d already pulled himself to his feet, but the way he leaned against the bars, the slump of his shoulders told the story of the villager’s abuse. Still, he’d known she was there, whether by the sound of their voices or, like she imagined, by the silent pulse that she could feel in her veins.
The two cells occupied the room in such a way to leave only a narrow aisle down their fronts. This portion of the jail had no windows, and each barred square held only one low cot with a bag of straw for a mattress.
She didn’t want to know what the buckets were for.
The gobelin groaned and his arms flexed. He pulled his body straighter and turned his abused face toward the light. His hair hung in pinkish brown strings. The single braid had stuck to the rest. He’d pried his eyes open, but she could see the effort that took, could see the swelling and the dried blood.
“Tir talus,” he whispered it with no trace of accusation.
She felt the sting of it just the same. She’d done this. Somehow, this was her fault too. She carried the lamp forward, illuminated the rest of his wounds, the slices on his arms, the bruising. “How badly did they hurt you?”
The corner of his mouth twisted upwards. His eyes flashed and his big shoulders lifted in a shrug that made him wince but didn’t kill the smile.
“Do you speak my language? I want to help you, but…” What did she have that could free him? A little time alone was not enough. Molton Fayer kept the keys at his belt at all times. If she had been thinking, if she’d been worth her good intentions, she’d have allowed the embrace a moment longer and tried to steal the ring.
“My brother,” the gobelin said in perfect, if somewhat overly articulated, speech. “Tal is in the pocket by the well.”
“Tall? In the pocket?” She snuck down the aisle, past the empty cell to where his eyes flashed in the candle light.
“Tal is his name.” He blinked, licked his cracked and bloodied lips and grinned despite the discomfort. “What is yours, tir talus?”
“Maera. What is that? You keep saying it.”
“It is you, Maera. And it is me.”
“Hmm.” He made her name sound musical. She felt the warmth of it in her face. “I just want to help you escape.”
“Do you know why?”
She stared at him. Did he? Could he possibly know about the deeds in her past? No. Only her guilt was lending his question more meaning than it warranted.
“Take this.” They hadn’t searched him. Or else the object he pulled from his leather belt had been hidden somewhere she didn’t want to imagine. He held it out for her. They’d taken his straps and pouches, his weapon, but not the belt holding up a pair of rough, leather trousers. Tight, she noted and diverted her gaze to what he held. He waved it impatiently. “Take this to the pocket and insert it. Tal will know…”
He froze, exactly the way a stag might when the hunters were near. Maera heard steps outside and her heart jumped in her chest.
“The human is coming back. Take it. Quickly.” He thrust the thing out again. “Take it to Tal.”
Maera reached for the crystal. It was cool and warm at the same time, smooth and also marked by the tiny ridges of the engraved sigils. She wanted to stand there and examine it, to stay close to him and ask him at least a hundred questions, but now she heard the voices too. Her pig hunt had wound to a finish, and the idea of still being in the jail when Fayer returned pushed her into action.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered. “I’ll find him.” She tucked the long stone into her skirt beside the knife and looked at him one last time. His eyes glowed yellow, full of light and his alien nature. His lips stretched into a wider smile, tearing one of the splits open again. He needed her to move fast. He needed to be free before the town had at him again.
She fled to the main room without looking back. The lamp, she put back where she’d found it, and she blew it out after getting a bead on the exit. In the dark again, her eyes failed her, but she ran just the same, fixed the exit in her mind and only had to fumble a few inches to the left to find the door’s handle. Before opening it, she leaned in and listened. The voices were faint, but too close, possibly, to slip away unnoticed. Yet, if Molton wasn’t alone he could hardly force her back inside the jail with him.
Certain she could slip away even if caught departing, Maera pulled open the door and gazed at the empty street. No pigs, nor any sign of the Jailor, though she could still hear his voice among others coming from beyond the next bend. The widow’s hogs must have done some damage. The voices were raised, so reached farther than they might otherwise.
Luck was with her, though it rarely gave her favor. Tonight, she thanked it and bolted away from the sound of pig-begotten chaos and back toward town.
Chapter Nine
Tal woke to a fading fire. He cursed, rolled to his knees and snarled at Torg while he poked at the coals with his knife. He’d told his brother what for, chastised him steadily while the flames awoke and didn’t realize until the crackling tongues lit the entire camp that Torg wasn’t there to hear him.
He’d gone back for the human witch. He’d gone to her, and Tal hadn’t even woken up to prevent it. Dung.
Torg had his crystal. Tal was alone in a pocket and completely blind. They’d hung the stag, had eaten one of the hares and dressed the other two. But they’d intended to move on, to join the horde today. He turned the blade side to side, let the fire reflect against the steel and spoke the words of blessing and blood. Torg would be back before the sun was too much up. He’d come back or else the witch would pay on the end of Tal’s knife.
He imagined a return to the gobelin camp without his brother. Torg had gone willingly into the human’s town. He’d broken the highest law of the horde, risked the prophecy and all it stood for, the future, the purpose of all gobelin kind. If Olin discovered the lapse, he’d be banished. Torg’s reputation could not save him from breaking that law.
Together, they might keep the breech secret. The horde would never have to know. Tal sniffed and clicked. He would wait, but it would do him no good at all if Torg was already dead.
He fumed until the sun peeked between the trees. He paced until it tipped their branches flame orange. He fretted for Torg, he planned the witch’s death, and before the light had fully lit his encampment, he gave up. Torg was not returning today. He’d lost his mind to the witch’s spell. He’d lost his life, no doubt, to a rain of human arrows.
The afternoon grew long enough to convince him of his hopelessness and he carried the stag through the membrane. Lucky or not, like it or not, Tal would return alone. The horde camp stilled at his appearance, quieted in a way the gobelin horde rarely managed. More than fifty heads turned in his direction. Legs of meat froze halfway to mouths, brushes ceased their stroking, and at least one wrestling match ended in a surprised tumble. Only the mighty bonfire still writhed and crackled, oblivious to anything but the wind and the wood that fed it.
Their camping pocket wasn’t the largest, to Tal’s knowledge, but it came close, tucked up next to the base of the Shadow ridge and containing enough space for the gobelins of Olin’s horde to sprawl in comfort when on this side of the divide. Two warriors, Vrau and Dutat, leapt up from crouches beside the fire and came forward to relieve him of the carcass. Both were friends of Torg’s, and both frowned when his brother didn’t appear next.
Tal dumped the stag at their feet and caught his breath. The horde’s attention remained fixed on him, and now the gobelins wandered over, closing in on where he panted over Torg’s kill.
“Where’s your brother, Tal?” Dutat questioned him first. “This shot has his signature.”
“It’s Torg’s stag.” Tal nodded. “The hares are mine.”
Dutat grunted and the men nodded. The rabbits, they could believe were his. They took those as well, when Tal unlaced the thong and handed them off, but both their gazes remained fixed on the pocket wall. Their scowls etched deeper.
“Torg is not returning.” He swallowed and looked at the assembling ring of faces. The second time he spoke loudly, made his voice carry to the others. “He has fallen.”
“What’s this?” Olin pushed through the ruckus. He towered over them, half again as tall as any of his horde and twice as wide as most. The old leader used a long, bladed staff to walk and, though the hordes had not warred in at least two generations, his necklace rattled with the finger bones and teeth of his enemies. “What has happened?”
Tal stood as straight as he could. He faced Olin and clicked his teeth once in respect. “We were hunting to the south. Rulak’s men are in the area.”
The horde erupted into a clicking frenzy. Weapons clattered from their sheaths. The cacophony of the gobelins’ reaction overpowered Tal’s story. Only when Olin raised his arm high over his braids, did silence return. The chieftain turned to Tal with grim eyes.
“Rulak has killed your brother?”
“No. Torg was ensorcelled by a human witch.”
“Human?” Olin’s eyes rounded. The horde hissed the word in echo. Human.
“He wanted to see them. He promised he’d only peek and then we could return here. But one look at the witch and Torg broke through the pocket and went straight to her.”
“Why? Torg is not a fool. Why would he appear before the human?”
Tal heard the mistrust in Olin’s question. He suspected Tal was to blame, that some error on his part had led Torg to stray. Ordinarily, it might have been the case. Ordinarily, but this time Tal had no hand in the mess.
“She put a spell on him. I got him back with only an arrow wound, but we camped by the well to rest, and when I awoke, he’d gone back to fetch her.”
“How do you know where he went?” Dutat growled at him and waved the hares he’d caught for emphasis. “If you went to sleep, how do you know Rulak didn’t come and take him?”
“Or worse,” Vrau added.
“He went back to her,” Tal insisted. “He believed she was his tir talus.”
Dutat gasped. Vrau spat on the ground and a hiss swept through the horde. Tir talus. Tal could hear the whispers. He caught Olin’s scowl as well. The great, green brow crinkled over narrow eyes. Before the horde leader could respond, however, another voice shouted over the hissing.
“Tal Bonesplint!” Old Gutra called him out. “Tir talus, you claim?”
“Not I, wise one.”
The matriarch grunted and pushed her way to the fore of the crowd. The horde parted, and the Sol buta, the bonded sisters, filed in to join their leader. They stood in an arc behind her, silent, separate and equal in power to Olin himself.
