They Mostly Come Out At Night (12 page)

A tale from the fireplaces of the Low Corvae.

It was a time of famine. A great heat had battered the land for many months and the people were suffering for it. Lakes and streams that had been reliable sources for lifetimes no longer existed. Fruit and berries were small and hard, if they grew at all. Grass was dry, brittle and often brown. During these times, people became desperate. One bad day could be the difference between living and dying.

Three months into the drought, two kings met on the borders of their kingdom. One was the King of the Grasslands, leader of the mouse folk. The other was King of the Forest, the Magpie King. These two men met by chance where the forest gave way to the waving plains, and both were immediately drawn to the body.

He had been an old man, this corpse. Despite the obvious age of the deceased, his head was still fully covered in hair, and was shot through with confident streaks of black among the predominant grey. It was not the man's hair colour that interested the two kings, however. In one hand, the dead man was holding a coin purse. The other lay close to a half-full water skin.

The King of the Forest licked his lips at the sight of the damp earth surrounding the water container. He had used the last of his supplies up on the previous day, and had ventured this close to the forest border in order to seek more of that precious liquid. He noticed that the King of the Grasslands had a similar air of desperation about him. Despite the king of the mouse folk's fine clothing - a silken black suit wrapped in a fine moleskin cloak, the royal crest clear on his breast and a golden crown on his head - the Mouse’s eyes were wide and roving.

Only one of these men would walk away from the encounter satisfied, and the other may not live to see another sunrise. Luckily for the Magpie King, he walked into this situation with two secrets up his sleeve. The first was that, despite appearances, one of the two kings present at this scene was not a king at all. You see, the Magpie King had heard many tales of Francesco of the Muridae, and all accounts described him as an overweight, spoilt noble used to having servants fawning over him. There was no chance this was the same man. Also, as the King of the Grasslands had first stepped into the open, the Magpie King had spied a long, hairless tail curl up from behind the man and hide itself under the moleskin cloak. The people of the Grasslands may worship the mouse, but only one of them had a tail like their totem - that was Alfrond. Alfrond the trickster, Alfrond the liar, Alfrond the exiled.

The other secret the Magpie King entered this situation with was that the remaining king involved in this encounter was also not a king at all. You see, although it certainly seemed that the Magpie King had appeared on his own borders - after all, he was currently dressed in a fine black outfit, protected by a mantle of thick, black and white feathers, and had a crown of finely weaved bramble circling his head - the man who was currently posing as the Magpie King knew that all of these items had been stolen from the Eyrie only days ago. That was because it was Artemis who was currently representing the forest in this dispute, not the Magpie King at all. Artemis the trickster, Artemis the liar, Artemis the exiled.

"Well met," Alfrond greeted the Magpie King, bowing with all the trappings of nobility one would expect from someone of royal blood.

"And you, brother," Artemis replied to the King of the Grasslands, matching his rival's fine graces.

"It appears," Alfrond began, “we have a situation here before us. This poor soul has passed on, and I wish to have his remains returned to his suffering family. The black through this creature's hair is a trait of the Muridae. Your common folk have bushy brown hair that turns white and falls out when they are older, unlike this wretched man. That solves this mystery before it has even begun. Let me claim this body and its belongings and be on my way."

"Ah, brother," Artemis replied, "I do not believe we can solve this conundrum so quickly. It is true, as you say, that many of the Corvae have thick brown hair, but we also celebrate a great variety of peoples in our kingdom. It would be unwise of me to not allow this man to make his final rest in my kingdom simply based on the colour of his hair. Also, you fail to take notice of the garments this man wore," he continued, indicating the simple woollen tunic on the corpse. "This is the traditional clothing of my people, and does not match the fine silks that the mouse folk clothe themselves in. I shall take this man and his effects back to the forest, and shall not rest until his family have been reunited with him."

Alfrond tutted, allowing a shadow of anger to cross his face. "It seems we shall not come to an agreement over this matter. Such a shame that such a simple thing causes our great kingdoms to argue. I call into effect the ancient laws forged between our peoples when they first met. See here, the roots of this oak tree," and with his right hand Alfrond indicated the closest tree to the body. "This is the last tree before my grasslands. The laws of both of our kingdoms dictate that where the oak's roots end, so too does your domain. You can well observe that this man's feet lie at least a pace beyond the border. Thus, I claim this body for the Mice."

Lips pursed, Artemis studied the scene. "Very well," he eventually relented, "I cannot debate this matter further with you." Alfrond reached down to grab the water skin, but Artemis placed his foot on the precious artifact.

"Ah, I cannot allow that," Artemis chided apologetically. "You may observe that this water skin is carefully balanced between two knotted oak roots. That is, as you already clearly stated, well within the limits of my kingdom. Although I do regret that I shall not be able to return this body to his rightful home, I claim this skin and its contents for the Magpies."

With that, Artemis took the water skin from the dirt and emptied its contents into his stomach in front of vanquished Alfrond, who could only grit his teeth at the sight of the clear liquid splashing down his enemy's cheeks. The two of them bowed and went on their way, although only one had the promise of surviving for another day.

Alfrond did endure, although that is a story that I myself do not know. If you speak to any of the Muridae of this tale, they shall swear until their whiskers fall out that it was Alfrond who ultimately deceived Artemis, forcing him to slink back to the forest unsatisfied.

But now you know the truth.

Lonan's eyes fluttered open. He sat up in bed, now fully convinced his dream visions were true.
There is hope, then, if we can just hold out until Adahy succeeds.
He glanced upwards at the cellar door, still ajar. He mounted the stairs to find Harlow rocking away by the fire, but Mother Ogma was nowhere to be seen. Peering out of the window, he saw an unusually large gathering of people on the village green.

Panicking about another attack tonight
,
as well they should. I wonder what kind of defences they came up with while I slept?

However, when he opened the door to go to join the crowd, he realised something was wrong. Most of the village was there, gathered to listen to the speaker who was standing elevated in the middle of the green. This was a common way for the villagers to commune together when the occasion demanded it. What was unusual about this particular gathering was that Lonan had never seen the speaker before in his life.

"...forty-three sheep and nine horses."

"We don't even keep any bloody horses anymore, damn you, how are we supposed to pay that?" one of the Tumulty boys bellowed at the speaker.

"Now Niall, calm down before you do yourself harm," came Old Man Tumulty's gruff voice from below the speaker.

"I hope I do not need to remind you yet again the penalty that will result for interrupting me in my royal duties?" the stranger shot back at Niall. The speaker was in his late thirties, early forties, and had very little meat on his bones. The man's hair was smoothed close to his head, jet black except for a dusting of grey around his temples. His skin was an almost-unnatural white, clearly the result of very little contact with the sun. From this distance his eyes seemed to match his hair and skin colour - dark black dots framed by brilliant whites. His garment was a long, hooded purple robe with golden embroidering at the neck, wrists and hem. He spoke with a superior air, expelling his words almost violently towards their targets.

"Next, the Anvils. You have been sent a number of unfulfilled requests over the years, much to my Lord's displeasure. I have here a detailed list of his numerous orders, and a demand they be fulfilled."

"I'm sorry," Lonan raised his hand, shoving his way to the front of the crowd. "Sorry, only just got here. Needed a bit of a lie-in, my apologies."

Having made his way to the front, he pointed his finger firmly towards the visitor. "Now, just who in Artemis’ name do you think you are?"

He had not meant to be as confrontational out of the gate, but Lonan knew that deep down, he was irritated by this man. Irritated by the fact that Lonan should currently be basking in the gratitude of the village, of Branwen, for his heroics last night. He was certain that his deeds would still have been the talk of the village if not for the arrival of this stranger, and part of him blamed this unusual man for taking his due away from him.

Also, Lonan could not help but feel a slow sense of dread building at the coincidence of an outsider arriving so soon after the previous night’s incident.

As if by clockwork, Jarleth took this moment to step out of the crowd. "Watch your tongue, Anvil. Inteus here is from the Magpie King." Turning to the newcomer, Quarry continued, "You will have to forgive the man. He's something of an oddity around here, the closest we have to a village idiot. Also, your information is a bit out of date, I'm afraid. The Anvils have not been smiths in this village for quite a few years now. That would be my role," Jarleth continued, puffing his chest out in pride. "I'm sure you will agree I can't be expected to honour somebody else's debt." Lonan did not have to see Jarleth’s eyes to realise his Knack was being brought into play. "But I'm certain we can come to some kind of arrangement."

Lonan had not really reacted to the 'village idiot' jibe. He was too busy reeling from the suggestion that this Inteus had come from the Eyrie. Lonan backed away from the centre, searching for a familiar face while Jarleth began negotiations. Lonan found Mother Ogma at the back of the circle of people, a look of bemusement playing on her face.

"With all of these friends you’ve been making recently, it's no wonder poor Mrs Cutter had to wait so long to get her medicine."

"You're going to have to fill me in. Where did this guy come from?"

Mother Ogma shrugged. "He turned up this afternoon. Just trotted in on a donkey, of all animals, and set up shop in the centre of the green, making all kinds of demands. You can imagine the commotion the sight of him caused."

"Demands?"

"Yes. We are all in very serious arrears, apparently. I myself owe several carts full of ointments and poultices." The smile on her face grew even bigger.

"Did he say when he left the Eyrie?" Lonan urged.

"Well, he'd have to have left this morning, wouldn't he? Otherwise he'd have been out in the dark, and I don't know any kind of fool who would spend the night under the stars." She cast her eyes pointedly at Lonan, who just flat ignored her.

"He's lying. The Magpie King is dead, Mother, I'm certain of it. Something is very wrong here."

If Mother Ogma was sceptical of Lonan's claims, she kept this to herself. "Well, he's certainly playing with us anyway. It must be obvious there is no way anyone here can fulfil the demands he is making. He's softening everyone up right now - we'll find out what he really wants soon enough."

Lonan watched as the messenger referred to a long scroll again, reading out another family's name and their dues. "He knows who we are?"

"He's from the Magpie King," was Mother Ogma's reply. "This is how we used to pay our taxes. They know our families and their trades."

Old Tumulty's voice rang out across the green, interrupting the multitude of hushed conversations that were taking place. "The sun is getting low, Mister Inteus. Might I suggest we get under cover for now, and continue this tomorrow?"

The tax man sharply nodded his approval. 

"We'll take the ass in with the rest of our animals. Is there anyone with room for Mister Inteus tonight?"

Slowly, all eyes turned towards Mother Ogma and Lonan cursed softly under his breath. Mother Ogma had a reputation for taking in strays, currently evidenced by her housing of Harlow and Lonan. The only other stranger that Lonan had ever seen in his life, an escaped thief from a neighbouring town, had also housed with her for a number of weeks before it was decided to put him to death to honour the judgement of their neighbours. This had been shortly after Lonan had started to stay with Mother Ogma, and he had bonded with the witty young man, often chatting well past the bells in the darkness of the cellar. His loss had been a blow to the already angry boy, but he had appreciated Mother Ogma's kindness towards the man in the final days of his life. He only wished the rest of the village would not take advantage of that kindness, especially now when Lonan wished to speak with her in private.