The Tribute, page 1
The Tribute
- A Tale of Aradane -
Matthew Ward
This Edition copyright © 2018 by Matthew Ward.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally.
I've travelled far and seen many wonders, but I have never once laid eyes upon anything more divine than man. And yet... it cannot be denied that when the moon is full, much is possible that was not before.
Stefan Dalrand
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
One
It was past midnight, long after the time when respectable folk should have been abed, but Mira couldn't sleep. Not when her father was coming home.
She sat on her bed, back pressed against the rough stone wall, thick woollen blankets and a smoky wolf-skin gathered close. The orchard's wind-tossed trees crackled and rustled beyond the wall. Perhaps it wasn't the trees, but the whispering ones, creeping through the village's deserted streets and rat-tat-tatting on window panes, just as they had every night since full moon.
Mira brushed a strand of pale blonde hair from her eyes and drew the wolf-skin tight. All would be well. Her father was coming home.
The click of knitting needles and the dull glow beneath the door's uneven timbers told Mira her mother was still awake, respectability be damned. She'd kept the vigil every day since her husband had left, worrying at some terrible fate overtaking him on the long and dangerous road, watching the old iron-bound door for a sign of his return. Mira had told her he'd be home tonight. Her mother had smiled a smile that didn't touch her eyes, and sent her to bed with a kiss.
Mira was accustomed to not being taken seriously. She'd known Uncle Arnya had been killed in the war, weeks before the herald had brought his unwanted tidings on that cold midwinter night. She'd known about the silverwolf on the meadowlands even before he'd made his first kill, and led the hunters to the beast's lair whilst it slept.
Still, few people paid heed when Mira spoke. She'd come to accept it, and told herself that her age was to blame more than her words. Girlhood lay behind her, but she wasn't truly a woman, not yet. Only Mira's father truly believed. The wolf pelt had been his gift to her, equal parts reminder of what she'd done for the village, and apology for his initial scorn. When Mira held it close, she felt safe – as safe as if she were in her father's arms.
Most teased Mira for her certainty when she was in earshot, and whispered about her when they thought she was not. Brother Miric made a faltering sign of Sidara's Rose whenever she climbed the steep path to his cheerless hillside church. Mira let him believe she didn't notice, but she always did.
She felt sorry for Brother Miric, with his nervous eyes and unsteady gaze. It was one thing to be a priest in the city, where stone walls kept wildness at bay. There, a man could pretend the stories of Lord Jack were simply tales spun from superstition and strong mead, and that blessed Sidara was the only power in the world. Sidara's light was at its dimmest in Rackan, where Fellhallow's eaves brooded on the eastern horizon, and the thorny fingers of the whispering ones rat-tat-tatted on window panes. Mira hadn't seen Miric out after dusk since the last full moon.
By and by, Mira heard the click-clack of her mother's needles stop, replaced by the rising swell of gentle snores. Outside, the wind howled louder, rattling the tiles. Sleep tugged at Mira's eyelids, and she drifted on a sea of slumber. She dreamed of falling through the night sky like a star, and of lurching shadows stalking cobbled streets, always drawing closer, always searching for her.
Rat-tat. Tat-tat. The sound started Mira awake. Rat-tat. Tat-tat.
The wind dropped. The crackle of leaves grew louder than ever, loud enough to be right outside her window.
Something scraped across the glass. Mira's heart skipped. She pulled the wolf-skin closer and stared in horror at the heavy drapes. They wouldn't come in. They couldn't come in, not unless they were invited. Without taking her eyes off the window, she reached under the bed for her father's old army sword.
Mira's fears evaporated as soon as she touched the steel, the stylised phoenix wings of the hilt cold beneath her fingers. The tapping was no longer the work of the whispering ones, but the old apple tree rattling against the glass. Cheeks warming with embarrassment, she shucked away the blankets. She'd see for herself, prove to her wandering mind nothing lay beyond the window except wind and rain.
She twitched the drape aside, expecting to see the threadbare apple tree, the old rope swing hanging from its boughs.
Green eyes blazed back.
A hunched figure stood in the moonlight, its long, thorned fingers frozen, mid-tap, against the glass. Mira stuffed a hand into her mouth, stifling a fearful yelp. The creature leaned closer to the window. The woven branches of its body parted, revealing mouldered bones shifting beneath.
The green eyes flared.
The creature lurched away, twisted hand slipping from the window. Shaking, Mira let the drape fall. She staggered away from the window, heart pounding, and clung to the sword so tight her fingers hurt.
Mira went still, not daring even to breathe. The rustling grew quieter, distant. Reaching out a trembling hand, she opened the drape again. All she saw was the forlorn apple tree, and the dark silhouette of the barn looming beyond. She stepped away from the window, drawing down great, shuddering breaths.
It was gone. It was gone. It might take someone else, but not her.
She heard the hollow thud of the manor house's door, and the wind howling inside. Swallowing her fears, Mira unlatched the door and passed through, sword gripped between whitened knuckles.
Her mother and father stood in the main hall, locked in a long-overdue embrace.
"Well, this is a fine greeting." Her father's tired eyes glinted beneath worn, bushy grey brows. He'd always looked older than his years. "I'm sorry I woke you. The wind snatched the door from my fingers."
He stepped away from his wife, and opened his arms wide. Mira set the sword down on the table, and rushed into his embrace. His travelling leathers were sodden, and stank of sweat. She didn't care.
"They... They're outside. The whispering ones. At my window." Mira knew she was babbling, but couldn't stop herself.
Her father stepped away, frowning. "I didn't see anything." He held up his calloused hands in a calming gesture. "It'll be dawn soon. You know the stories. They won't wait around for the sun."
Mira's mother shook her head. "And nor should we. Tomorrow won't be any easier without sleep. Stay in here, if you like."
Mira shook her head. The threat seemed distant, now her father was home. "No. I'll go back to bed."
She kissed her parents goodnight, picked up her discarded sword, and went back to her chamber. Lingering on the threshold, she offered her mother a triumphant nod. "I told you he'd be back tonight."
Two
Mira woke to bright strips of sunlight creeping around the edges of her chamber's heavy drapes. In the main hall, empty bowls betrayed that her father and mother had already eaten – they always seemed to get by on only a few hours' sleep, though Mira never understood how – but a pot of milky oatmeal still bubbled on the hearth. Her mother stood close by, periodically tending the mix with a long-handled spoon.
Mira's father sat in his customary place, the intricately-carved wooden armchair at the table's head. His travelling leathers were gone, replaced by a suit of worn green broadcloth. "Morning, slinkabed. I wondered if we'd see you before noon."
Mira's mother arched an eyebrow. "Leave her alone. You've not been up for long yourself."
"Ah, but Brock and I travelled a dozen leagues yesterday." Brock was his aging warhorse, an old battle companion come home to farm duties at Rackan. "That's more than she'll have done, I'll bet." He sounded stern, but offered Mira a sly wink when his wife's attention was elsewhere.
"Pay him no attention." Mira's mother spooned oatmeal into a bowl and set it on the table. "He can't leave the army behind, some days."
"Aye, for all the good it did me."
Mira took her place at the table. "It didn't go well?"
Her father shook his head. "It did not."
Mira's mother sat down opposite, the wooden legs of her chair scraping on stone. "Why won't they send help? Don't they believe you?"
"Some did. Most thought I'd been drinking. They don't live out here. To them, the whispering ones are just stories."
Mira took a spoon of oatmeal. Hot and sweet, with just the barest hint of nutmeg – just how she liked it. She'd never been able to replicate the taste, not after a thousand times of trying. "What about Uncle Mikel?"
Mikel Torev wasn't her real uncle, of course, but an old comrade of her father's. He'd visited many times over the years, always with tales of the Contested Lands.
"He tried. He stood with me before the council, helped me argue my case. It didn't do any good." He sat back. "I don't know I blame them. The word of an old soldier's not worth much, not when he starts raving about forest demons most folk don't believe in."
"More likely they don't care," said Mira's mother, darkly. "We're too far away. They think we're more Hadari than Tressian, just because we're so far away."
"Don't say that, Engerid. The Republic's thinly stretched these d ays, worse than it's been for centuries, maybe. There are hardly any soldiers left in the city, and most of those are boys no older than Mira." He shook his head. "I'm not sure I'd send troops here either."
"So what do we do now? They took the Sorevs last week, even their granddaughter, and she weren't more than six months old. No one's heard from Happer's Mill for three days, and no one'll go down there to find out why."
"I went," said Mira. "Except there's no mill any more, just crumbling walls, covered in vines and tree roots."
Her mother's face went rigid. "I told you it weren't safe. I told you I didn't want you going."
Mira squared her shoulders and met the worried gaze dead on. "I'm the headman's daughter. Someone had to go. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be angry."
Her mother's expression softened, and she took one of Mira's hands in her own. "Oh my dearest, I'm not angry. I'm proud, but you shouldn't put yourself in danger." She glanced at her husband. "You tell her, Torin. She never listens to me."
He didn't reply. Mira's heart swelled with pride to see the gleam in his eye, but she worried at the shadow riding close behind.
Mira's mother let go of her hand and wiped away sudden tears. "No! No, you can't be considering this. Not after all these years."
The oatmeal went cold on Mira's tongue. She put down her spoon, and pushed the bowl away. "I don't understand."
Her father limped over to the mantelpiece and picked up the small silver box from atop the polished stones. Walking back to the table, he set it down.
Mira eyed the box warily. It had sat on the fireplace as long as she could recall, always held shut by a simple hasp. It was an intricate thing, no bigger than a cooking apple, and covered with swirling patterns. She'd tried to open it when she was little. That act of curiosity had earned her a rare beating – one that had only ended when she'd promised never to make another attempt. Mira had never broken that promise, not out of fear of what her father would do, but because he'd looked so scared. Him, a survivor of the siege of Tarvallion, a veteran of the Contested Lands. Scared.
Almost as scared as he looked now.
He knelt at her side. "You're right. Being the headman, or the headman's daughter, is a great responsibility. Sometimes it asks more of us than we want to give."
"What's going on father? What are you talking about?"
"If the council won't send soldiers to protect us, our only hope is to pay tribute to the Lord of Fellhallow. Hopefully, he'll call his servants home." He took her hands in his. "I need you to..." His voice broke, and he started again. "Take this box to Fellhallow, and plead our case."
Mira stared at him, her mouth dry as ash. Fellhallow. The lair of twisted Jack, master of the whispering ones. No one from Rackan went there. So far as she knew, no one went there at all. Certainly no one came back.
"Why must it be her?" Mira's mother demanded.
"You know why. No one else can do this," said Mira's father. "I wouldn't ask, not if there were any other way. I'd go, but there are no roads through Fellhallow, and Brock won't venture under those trees."
He sounded angry and sad, thought Mira – angry, and sad, and old. Fighting hadn't come near Rackan for decades, but the war had taken its toll, calling the young men and women away to fight for the Republic's future. She still remembered the last of them leaving for the recruiters in Ardovo. No one – not even his parents – had heard from him since.
"You've been inside Fellhallow?" Mira found it easier to focus on that than on anything else her father had said.
"Once, when I was young and foolish. When you return, we can trade stories, if you'd like."
In truth, Mira didn't understand, but her father had never asked her to do anything without cause. The thought of travel didn't scare her. She'd been away from the village before, and passed many a night staring at the beauty of the stars. But to enter Fellhallow? Plead with Jack? The thought sent shivers down her spine.
Mira's mother no longer made any attempt to hide her tears. "You can't send her, Torin, she's too young."
"I'm not sending her. I'm asking her to go, for the sake of everyone in the village. Another month of this and there'll none of us be left."
Mira wanted to stay safe in her parents' house, to let someone else deal with the whispering ones. Perhaps soldiers would come from the city, despite her father's fears. Perhaps Jack would grow bored of tormenting Rackan. But then her thoughts turned to the ruin of Happer's Mill, of the empty cot tangled in tree roots, and the black vines woven about the millwheel. Suddenly, all she saw was her home in ruins, and vines woven through the slats of her father's chair.
Taking a deep breath, Mira rose. "I'm sixteen. I wish you wouldn't talk as if I'm not here." Almost of their own accord, her shaking fingers closed around the silver box. "I'll go."
Three
The torrential wind and rain of the night were but memories, the morning air instead lit bright by autumnal sun and given life by a stiff breeze.
Mira crossed the thin fence of the village boundary before noon, and passed through the Brides of Fellhallow soon after. One of the stones had toppled in the wind, and lay flat amongst the corn poppets and tribute-wreaths. An omen of sorts, though Mira couldn't fathom if it were for good or for ill. She lingered in the circle, wondering whether to pray to Jack for swift passage and a safe return, but decided against it.
By mid-afternoon, the stone circle was far at her back, and Fellhallow had grown to a dirty smear on the horizon. There were no paths across the moor, and the windswept gorse scraped at Mira's thick boots and plucked at her wolfskin. The previous night's rain had left the ground wet and boggy, and she took long, looping detours to avoid becoming trapped in the mud.
She carefully avoided the wooded dells dotting the landscape. The previous night's encounter with the whispering one remained uppermost in her memory. In her mind's eye, every hollow concealed the gangling creatures, and Mira had no desire to meet with one unless strictly necessary.
Unbidden, Mira recalled her father's tales. She thought of the Harvest Queen who was Jack's consort, who stole children because she couldn't provide him with an heir; of the grieving widow who begged Jack to rescue her son from war, not knowing he'd take her daughter in payment; and of the abandoned village deep in the wood, where the trees screamed when felled. They'd seemed fanciful when she'd been a girl, yarns spun by parents to tantalise and terrify their children. But then, so had the whispering ones...
Yet for the most part, Mira enjoyed her journey, especially when dusk fell, and the bitter scents of the moorland grew stronger. Mira hardly noticed how long she'd been walking until she saw the moon high in the sky, its soft light a balm upon her skin. It had been brighter in the years before she'd been born, or so her father always said, though Mira couldn't see how.
The moorland was alive with cool, white light. Moths flitted through the night air, and Mira heard small mammals scurrying through the tangled gorse. The wind picked up, carrying wolf voices down from the north, but the sound didn't bother her. The howls were a long way off, and she had her father's sword.
More ominous was the dark stain of Fellhallow spreading before her. The nearer Mira drew, the more the scattered dells felt seemed like the strands of some vast, unruly web, creeping across the moor. She resolved not touch upon those strands, lest she draw the attention of the spider at its heart – Jack surely felt the fall of every leaf, and the twitch of every branch. Mira knew she had to brave his lair to fulfil her father's wishes. But not tonight. She'd have one last night under the stars.
Mira turned her back on Fellhallow. She retraced her steps to an old oak, proud and alone, autumnal leaves almost otherworldly in the moonlight. She set a fire with its fallen boughs, and ate her fill. Then she unbuckled her sword, pulled her wolf-skin cloak tight around her, and slipped away into sleep.
◆◆◆
The sharp snap of a twig brought Mira awake. The embers of her fire glowed dully. The oak's leaves rustled in the night's dying breeze.
Another snap.
