Wandering Lark (27 page)

“Shouldn’t we follow the road?” Hobbler said. “I’m getting tired of tripping over long grass and high stones.”

“We want to reach the gates before dark,” Gareth reminded the little man. “We both know they will not open them after dark, and then we would just be forced to seek shelter on one of the farms, and they are just as unlikely to open their gates after dark.”

Hobbler sighed.

“Too bad we didn’t think to bring horses,” Fenelon said. He too had stopped on the road.

Gareth stopped and cocked an eye at his son who was staring off in the distance in a thoughtful way. “We do not steal horses,” Gareth said.

“Oh, I was not thinking of stealing them,” Fenelon said.

“We’re not buying them either,” Gareth said. “We’d just have to sell them in Stanewold, and Stone Folk have little use for horses there.”

“Wasn’t thinking of buying them either,” Fenelon said and his gaze wandered back up the hill at the forest.

“Fenelon, I forbid it!” Gareth said.

Fenelon grinned like a jackanapes, and the sight of that expression just tightened Gareth’s stomach. 

“Now, Father, I am past the age where you can forbid anything of me,” Fenelon said. “That’s why I moved into Eldon Keep, you know. Won’t be but a moment...”

He disappeared, leaving Hobbler at the edge of the road casting an uneasy look over one shoulder. “What’s he going to do?” Hobbler asked as he turned to look at Gareth once more.

Gareth struggled back up the embankment onto the road. He got there in time to see Fenelon sprinting like a stag up the hill and into the forest.
Horns,
Gareth thought and demonstrated his rage by thumping the heel of his staff into the dirt at his feet.

“Well?” Hobbler said.

“I should have made him go back,” Gareth said.

“Why?”

“Because until we get into the Ranges, it is unsafe for him to use magic,” Gareth said. “Even here, Turlough has spies. I’m sure of it!”

“Should we go stop him?”

“Too late,” Gareth said and glowered at the trees. A few moments passed. He could feel the power Fenelon was invoking, and just hoped there were none sensitive to spell work in the vicinity. Then there was a stirring at the forest’s edge, and a horse emerged with Fenelon on its back. He led two more as he guided his mount down to the road. As the horses came closer, one could see the weathered black bark of ancient elms on their hides.

“Anyone need a ride?” Fenelon said cheerfully, stopping his new “horse” on the road.

“You did not kill a tree for that, I hope,” Gareth said. “That is a crime that bears the penalty of death in these lands.”

“Deadwood,” Fenelon said. “I spotted it when we were fighting our way through that last copse.”

“Animating the dead is not wise either,” Gareth said.

“They’re dead trees, father,” Fenelon insisted. “It’s not the same as animating dead animals or people. And besides, they’re more comfortable to ride than stone horses, which were my only other choice.”

“In this land, trees are treated with respect,” Gareth said. “And just what do you propose to do with them once we reach Stanewold?”

“They will return to being nothing more than deadwood,” Fenelon said. “And someone will have a nice fire tonight.”

“You know,” Hobbler said as he cautiously approached one of the remaining horses. “They are rather handsome beasts.” He petted the nearest one, and where his hand landed, bits of bark fluttered off. The wooden horse turned its eyes in his direction and snorted. More bits of bark struck Hobbler in the face. He flinched and stumbled back. “My eye, it put something in my eye,” he said.

Gareth caught Hobbler before he fell, crouching so he could whisper a spell and wave a hand over the little man’s face. The bits of debris leapt out of his eye, leaving Hobbler blinking.

“I think we better hurry before they prove to be riddled with termites and dry rot,” Fenelon said. He guided his own mount towards the road.

“You didn’t check first?” Gareth said.

“There wasn’t time,” Fenelon replied.

Gareth sighed. There was no getting around it. He helped Hobbler onto one of the beasts which came complete with a wooden saddle, but no bridle.

“How do I make it go where I want it to go,” Hobbler asked.

Fenelon said,
“Thig thusa Leamsa,”
and gestured, and the wooden horse started on. Hobbler snagged the saddle with both hands and clung for dear life.

Shaking his head, Gareth mounted the remaining beast. It creaked a bit as his weight settled into the saddle. Using his knees, he clucked to the beast, and it stepped forward as obedient as any well-trained mount, but with every step, little bits of the bark would slough off. The odor of wood fungus rose to bite Gareth’s nose with its musty scent.

Horns. He hoped there wasn’t too much dry rot in it. He did not relish the thought of falling through his mount.

It was getting close to sundown
when the smoke of a farmstead caught Talena’s eye.       

“There,” she said and pointed. “I told you we would find a barn to shelter in.”

Alaric had not seen it. He was too busy noticing the odd buzz that filled Vagner and thrummed inside him as well. As though something was happening that was being kept from him.

“Assuming the farmer will allow it?” Alaric muttered and tried to concentrate on what was causing this odd feeling.

Talena glanced at him. “Why should he not,” she said and gestured to Alaric’s clothing. “You are a bard of good rank. That alone guarantees that you will be well received from here to the far western mountains. How can you doubt it?”

“What?” he said and looked at her fully, then realized he had been preoccupied. “I mean, what makes you think that I have any doubts about my bardic skill?”

Talena shook her head. “You are almost as strange as your horse, Lark,” she said.

Alaric frowned. Horns, what did she mean by that?

But before he could ask, she put heels to her mare, and the little bay gladly picked up a pace that would put distance between herself and Alaric’s demon mount.

The farmstead was almost a small village
in Alaric’s opinion. In fact, the way it was arranged, it reminded him of his home at Gordlea Hold. That thought sank into his soul and left him momentarily homesick. He suddenly realized just how much he missed his family. And his friends.

“A bard has no time for hearth and home,”
Ronan whispered in Alaric’s head.
“He travels to broaden his horizons and to see the world and feed his songs.”

Alaric said nothing. He was noticing that the cottage was hitched up against what looked like a tower.

“Water stores,”
Ronan said.
“A great stone cistern sits on top of it. On the far side, you will find a sluice and a long trough. Probably how they water the fields and the cattle without a well.”

Why not dig a well?
Alaric thought.

“Some of the farm folk still believe that water from the ground will allow heretics to enter their homes.”

Alaric shook his head over such nonsense. Fortunately, Talena had ridden a little ahead, and she did not see.

Exactly what are these heretics?
Alaric asked.

“Mageborn or demons or bogies,”
Ronan said and his voice carried a hint of despair.
“These people do not distinguish one from the other. To them, all creatures of magic are heretics. That is what the temple has taught them, and that is what they are told to believe.”

How sad,
Alaric thought and sighed.

As they got closer, Alaric saw sheep and cattle in pens and a gamut of activity from the ringing of a hammer on metal to the laughter of children and the cackle of hens. Under the archway of what looked like a small gate house, Alaric viewed a larger space. Several smaller cottages ranged around the inner yard, attached by sheds and walkways. Talena stopped her horse just outside the archway of the main gate to the yard. He drew rein beside her and waited to see what was to happen.

At length, the man at the anvil looked up and glowered under thick-hooded brows then his expression opened out into surprise. “Majeline!” he called. “Bouric! Father! We’ve company.”

A woman stepped out of the largest cottage, wiping her hands on her apron. Behind her came a bristling man who must have been the father of the anvil ringer since he possessed the same bushy brows. He was followed close on by a younger man who carried a quarterstaff. He, the anvil ringer and the younger approached the wooden gate gatehouse which Alaric now noticed harbored a dovecote and a small guard platform. The later became obvious when the head of a young lad who could not have been more than eleven appeared over the edge. Alaric offered a smile. The boy merely sneered.

Talena glanced at Alaric in an expectant manner.

“You must speak,”
Ronan said.

And say what?
Alaric thought then felt the words slide into his head. He let them glide off his tongue like honey.

“Well met, good masters.” Alaric bowed slightly in the saddle. “I am Lark the Wanderer, a bard of great skill, and I seek the hospitality of your home just for the night and am willing to trade song for my keep.”

“Lark the Wanderer,” the eldest said. “I am Gloster vho Gilliam, and this is my home, and I welcome you to it, Master Bard.” He looked at Talena. “Is this your woman?”

Talena cleared her throat. “I am Talena Elderwood,” she said, “and I am a mercenary hired by Master Lark to protect him on the road.”

Alaric fought the urge to arch an eyebrow. Since when had he taken her on as a hireling?

“It is custom for her to state her profession,”
Ronan said.
“Elsewise, they will think her a free woman in need of a man. The temple encourages women to be wives and mothers more than sell swords, so she must state her purpose up front or be condemned just as quickly as a heretic would.”

But I didn’t hire her,
Alaric thought.

Master Gloster seemed satisfied though and nodded. “These are my sons, Bouric, Manster and Philton,” he said as he gestured to the staff bearer, the anvil ringer and the little one above. “And this is my daughter-kin, wife of Manster, Majeline. We welcome you to our humble home, bard and will gladly share our roof and our meals for your songs, so long as they are good songs that praise the Temple and its good ways.”

“But of course,” Alaric said, though he felt Ronan bristle just a bit. “For the Temple is wise in all its ways.”

Gloster nodded as though this pleased him. “Come,” he said. “Bouric, open the gate. Philton, come help your brother with the horses.”

Bouric did as he was bade, though the surly look of distrust did not leave his eyes. Philton came bounding off the platform, half falling the last few stairs in his rush. Talena dismounted outside the gate, and Alaric figured he had better do the same.

But as his foot landed on the the ground, he thought,
Vagner’s saddle! It is part of him. What if they...

“All will be well,”
Ronan said.
“The demon knows his place and his part.”

The demon turned a not-so-equine glower around in Alaric’s direction, though he sensed that the expression was not for him, but for Ronan. With a shake of that horsey head, Vagner snorted and turned back...and shied a bit when the lad reached for his reins.

“Perhaps I had better take him into the barn,” Alaric said cautiously. “He tends to be a little shy around strangers.”

Master Gloster nodded. “Show him the way, Philton,” he said.

The boy looked at Alaric, then seized Kessa’s reins and started on. Talena stayed back. The little mare did a lively dance and practically ran into the stables.

“Put him there,” Philton said in the disinterested way of lads his age. “There’s a box for the tack in the stall.”