A
HOWLING IN THE WOODS
“Hah! Three knights—I win!” Laren Mapstone, captain
of His Majesty’s Messenger Service, the Green Riders, slapped her
cards down on the rough-hewn table and grinned in
triumph.
The man across from
her, older, weatherworn, his hair faded to a creamy white, gazed
mournfully at his queen and pair of ships.
“No need to gloat,”
he said.
A pile of chestnuts
sat in the middle of the table and Laren drew them all toward
herself. A few rolled off onto the dirt floor. “Mine! All
mine!”
“I guess that’s it,
then,” the man said. “I’m all out.”
“You are?” When
Laren looked, she saw he hadn’t a single chestnut
left.
“You’d have thought
I’d learned not to gamble with you years ago.”
“What do you say we
roast the loot then?” Laren asked.
Elgin Foxsmith,
retired Chief Rider of the Green Riders—the first Laren ever served
under—collected the chestnuts and dumped them into a pan and placed
them before the hearth. He threw another log on the fire and limped
back to his seat at the table.
Two horses and a
donkey watched the proceedings in the dim, one-room cabin through a
window cut into the wall of the adjoining stable. One horse was
Laren’s gelding, Bluebird, and the other, Elgin’s mare, Killdeer.
Killdeer was getting on in years, her sweet face looking grayer
than ever, and Laren worried how Elgin would cope when the time
came for her to pass on. He lived a solitary life out here in the
woods, claiming he’d had enough of all kinds of people during his
stint in the messenger service to last a lifetime.
She worried about
him all alone out here, especially with the harsh winter they’d
had, so she made a point of visiting him as often as she could,
bringing him news, preserves, books, blankets—anything she thought
he might need. He was nearly self-sufficient, keeping a garden, a
milk cow, sheep, and some chickens. Hunting and fishing rounded out
his larder.
And while reclusive,
he wasn’t entirely a hermit. He made periodic trips to the village
to acquire goods, like fodder and grain. Still, he wasn’t getting
any younger, and Laren did not know how much longer he could handle
this rugged life on his own.
A bang-clatter in the stable made Laren
jump.
“Bucket!” Elgin
shouted. “Enough!”
Bucket was the
donkey, and Killdeer’s companion. He had a habit of banging his
food bucket around, hence his name. He was, Elgin claimed, not much
good for anything, but Killdeer liked him so he remained. Laren
knew that without Bucket, the garden would not be tilled, wood
would not be hauled in, and items couldn’t be carted in from the
village.
“So, Laren said,
“have you considered my offer?” This time, she came not only to
check on Elgin’s welfare, but to present him with a
proposition.
Elgin grumbled
something, then passed his hands through his hair. “Don’t think I
can go back there, Red. Besides, my brooch abandoned me a long time
ago.”
“Unless I’m
mistaken, your knowledge and experience have not.”
“All those people
crammed into one place,” he muttered. “And who would look after the
girls? I can’t just leave them.”
Elgin referred to
his chickens and the cow. “I don’t know,” Laren said, “but there
are ways, it seems to me. And if you don’t like the work or being
back at the castle, you could leave anytime.”
“And what about your
current Chief Rider, eh? Can’t she handle the job?”
“Mara is a wonderful
Chief Rider.”
“See? You don’t need
me. Besides, I wouldn’t want to step on her toes.”
“You wouldn’t. Our
numbers have more than doubled over the last year. Mara has only
just recovered from terrible wounds, and while the winter has kept
our senior Riders close to home and helping with training, spring
is nearing and soon Zachary will have them off on
errands.”
The cabin shuddered
in a gust of wind as if to counter her words.
“Heh, hard to think
of the prince a man full-grown, and getting married, too,” Elgin
said.
“King,” Laren reminded him. “King Zachary.”
“Er, right. Just a
lad when I last saw him.” Elgin had served Zachary’s grandmother,
Queen Isen. He sighed. “Look, I appreciate you thinking of me, Red,
but too much time has passed. I don’t know how things work up there
at the castle anymore. I’d be no better than a green Greenie
myself. Besides, I’ve no mind to be scraping and bowing to all the
gentry. All those people! I’m my own man here.”
Laren folded her
hands on the table before her. They were roughened and calloused,
and nicked with scars. They looked old to her. Just as old as she
sometimes felt, especially when she got up in the morning all
aching and stiff. She could appreciate Elgin’s desire to stick to
his life out here in the cabin—no need to adapt to the expectations
of others, which, she thought, was all she’d ever done. She
couldn’t remember a time when there weren’t orders to follow, or to
issue. Her life was not her own, yet she did not resent it, for the
messenger service gave her purpose.
Elgin was well
beyond her in years, but she was now older than he was when he
retired. In fact, most Riders left the messenger service within
four or five years, if they were not killed doing their duty first.
But the calling still clung to her as strongly as it had when she
first came to the service some twenty years or more ago. It
appeared there was work for her yet to do, so long as she was not
cut down in the process.
“There is another
reason I request that you come to assist in the training of the new
Riders,” she said. “The king is preparing—quietly, mind you—for
conflict. He does not know when or how, but he wishes to be
prepared.”
“Conflict? Is this
about the Blackveil business?”
Laren nodded. She
had regularly apprised him of all that had come to pass during each
of her visits, and especially the involvement of the Green Riders.
“Mornhavon the Black will return sooner or later, and we’re already
contending with Second Empire. We’ve word they’re consolidating
their forces.” Green Riders had died trying to bring back the
information.
Elgin scratched a
bristly cheek, deep in thought. Presently he said, “I am an old
man. What am I against all that?”
“We’re not asking
you to solve the world’s problems,” Laren replied. “Just to help us
so we can take care of it. Maybe you don’t remember how young some
Riders can be. Our newest boy just turned twelve. Your experience
will help give them what they need to survive—prepare them for the
storm to come.”
He turned away and
she wondered if she said the wrong thing, hit too close to his
heart. The cabin dimmed even more and creaked in the wind.
Sparkling snow blew through cracks in the chinking and beneath the
door. The horses and Bucket watched with ears perked, as if
expecting some momentous proclamation.
But Elgin remained
silent.
“I’d better get
going,” Laren said, rising from her bench. “I want to reach the
city before it gets dark. The clouds were building like it might
snow again.”
Elgin nodded. “Best
take your chestnuts with you. Should be ready by now.”
Shortly after,
roasted chestnuts warmed Laren’s coat pockets as she sat astride
Bluebird. It was already snowing and it looked like it could really
pick up.
“Be careful,” Elgin
said from his doorway. Snow mounded the path to either side of him,
and a thick layer overhung his roof. “I’ve lost some sheep to
critters. Been thinking about getting a dog.”
Laren thought a dog
a sensible idea. “You be careful, too, Chief. And if you decide to
give us a hand, know that you’ll have the gratitude of your king.
And me.”
He made a dismissive
gesture and went back inside. Laren reined Bluebird down the path
away from the cabin.
“I think he’s
interested,” she confided to her horse. “At least he didn’t tell me
to go to the five hells.”
Bluebird snorted and
Laren slapped his neck.
The snow fell
heavily, dropping through the woods in curtains. It damped down the
world, blanketing it all in an eerie hush, except for the creak of
a tree limb or the thud of Bluebird’s hooves.
Laren was glad the
path from Elgin’s cabin was wide enough for his cart, for it made
the way obvious in the snow, when a narrower track would have been
obscured, the terrain and sameness of the trees disorienting. She
supposed if she got lost, Bluebird would know the way home, but it
was, nevertheless, reassuring to have a clear path to
follow.
She rode on, warm in
her fur-lined greatcoat, confident in spite of the weather and the
fading daylight. The rhythm of Bluebird’s steady pace and the
mesmerizing flurries floating down down down, allowed her to lose
herself in an array of mundane thoughts. What was the next day’s
schedule? Meetings. There were always meetings, and piles of
paperwork, and checking on the progress of the new Riders. Many did
not have even a rudimentary education, so in addition to learning
court etiquette, how to handle a sword, and ride, they must also be
taught writing, reading, figuring, and geography. The long winter
had been a bonus, keeping her senior Riders available to
assist.
A howl raked the
serenity of the forest. Bluebird sidestepped nervously. Caught
unaware as she was, Laren kept her seat by sheer instinct. No
sooner did she steady Bluebird when the howl came
again.
Wolves? she wondered.
More cries followed,
some closer, some farther away, and the hair on the nape of her
neck stood.
Ordinarily she
wouldn’t be too concerned about the wild creatures, as they tended
to shy from people, but with such a severe winter, she imagined
they were desperate for a meal. Bluebird was definitely a prey
animal, and if the howling creatures were starving, they would
overcome their natural fear of her.
She urged Bluebird
forward into a trot, peering into the graying forest, and the cries
came again, louder, closer, all around her. If she pushed Bluebird
into a gallop, wouldn’t it just incite pursuit?
When the cries
filled the forest again, they didn’t sound quite right. Not exactly
like wolves or coyotes. There was an almost human quality to
them.
Groundmites.
“Bloody hell,” Laren
muttered, and from the corner of her eye she caught the movement of
a manlike figure lumbering among the trees. Manlike, but not
human.
Then she saw another
and another ...
She drew her saber
and jabbed her heels into Bluebird’s sides. If winter had been
rough on other creatures, it was certainly hard on groundmites.
Starvation must have driven them this far into
Sacoridia.
Bluebird kicked up
snow as he lunged forward. Laren crouched low over his neck, the
hilt of her saber gripped firmly in her gloved hand.
The groundmites, no
longer attempting to conceal themselves, rushed her and Bluebird,
waving clubs and primitive hatchets, their cries chilling. As
Bluebird charged by them, Laren saw only a blur of their furred and
snarling faces. The groundmites flung themselves out of the forest
into the path trying to block her way. She cut one down, then
another, blood spraying across snow.
Enough of the
creatures scrambled into the path that they obstructed it; others
charged in from the sides. Laren spun Bluebird on his haunches only
to find the groundmites had cut her off from behind as well. They
had effectively tightened the noose around her.
Her only chance was
to fight through and make for Elgin’s cabin, and there they might
make a stand.
She hacked off a
clawed hand that reached for Bluebird’s bridle and blocked a
descending hatchet. She drove her saber into the groundmite’s
neck.
These groundmites
were cloaked in rags and hides, pitiful, really. None appeared to
be wearing armor, which improved her chances.
Bluebird kicked one
from behind and she heard a wet sound like a melon being smashed. A
club hammered her left thigh and she swept her sword over
Bluebird’s neck to slash the groundmite’s face. It mewled in pain
and fell away.
Bluebird plunged at
their attackers, kicked and bit them, trying to break free even as
he received blows all over. It only enraged him more and he
bellowed a challenge before striking down another groundmite with
his front hooves.
Laren was tiring,
and she knew Bluebird was, too. If they did not break free soon,
they’d be in deep trouble.
None of the
groundmites seemed to be armed with a sharp blade, and just as she
was thanking the gods for it, a short sword swept at her from out
of nowhere, catching her coat. Chestnuts poured from her slashed
pocket.
She parried a second
blow, then hacked into the skull of another groundmite that clubbed
at Bluebird’s face. Her saber stuck in bone, and in that moment,
the short sword flashed toward her.
She saw the
inevitable. She would fall, and so would Bluebird.