Читать книгу Shadows of Myth - Rachel Lee - Страница 9

The gatekeeper, Jem Downey, was not at the harvest festival. Oh, no. Not for him the revelry, food and storytelling, not that there would be much to miss this year. But as the gatekeeper, one whose son was stapled to the innkeeper’s daughter’s petticoats, Jem had no choice but to stay at his post.

At least until the sun had been set a while longer. With these cold days and nights, there might be other trappers and travelers seeking shelter, and Jem wasn’t one to let them freeze outside the city walls, much as he might grumble about missing all the fun.

Nor could he leave the gate open, as had been the custom during festivals in years past, to welcome any who might care to join the carousing. Not this year. Not with the rumors of fell things in the woods, of terrible events in the cities to the south.

This year a man couldn’t feel safe except behind the sealed stone walls of the town.

Not that Jem was unduly worried. He’d seen too many years not to have learned that rumors were usually far worse than fact.

So he sat in the kitchen with his wife, Bridey, sipping the lentil soup she had flavored with a piece of hamhock from a neighbor’s smokehouse. Everyone in town gave something to the gatekeeper from time to time. It was his pay. And this winter it might make him either the most fortunate man in town or the least. There was no way to predict how people’s hearts would face a rugged winter that boded to be the worst in memory.

But even that Jem didn’t truly fear, because he knew that come the worst, there would always be a meal for him at the Whitewater Inn. Bandylegs always managed to pull something out of his hat and was always ready to feed the Downeys.

The lentil soup was good and filling, though Bridey had made little enough of it, trying to save both hamhock and lentils for another supper.

Satisfied, Jem took out his pipe and indulged the pleasure of filling it just so with what little leaf he still had from the south. He couldn’t often indulge, but tonight, being a festival and all, he decided he could afford just this one bowlful.

He lit it with a taper from the fire—wood at least was plentiful—and told Bridey to leave the washing up and go join the festival. “You’ve worked hard enough today, my dear,” he told her fondly. “I’ll do the cleaning up.”

She smiled almost like the girl she had once been and gave him a kiss that brought a blush to his cheeks.

“You be coming along soon,” she told him.

“Aye. Soon as I’m sure there are no other poor souls out this night.”

As his wife departed the tower, Jem heard the keening of the wind. Aye, it was going to be a bad night. The outdoor festivities were probably already moving into the warmth of the inn’s public rooms. Not everyone could fit there, of course, but most of those with wee ones would be looking for their own beds soon, anyway.

Puffing on his pipe, he poured hot water from the kettle that always hung near the fire into the wooden pan, and washed the dinner bowls and spoons. There was still soup left in the big pot that hung to one side of the fire, and he decided to leave it where it was. ’Twas a cold night, and he might be wanting that bit of victual before he crawled into his bed.

He was just puffing the last of his pipe when the gate bell rang, a tinny but loud clang that was supposed to wake him even when he was soundly asleep.

Muttering just because he felt like muttering, he stomped across the room and pulled his thickest cloak off the peg. Wrapping it tightly around himself, he went down the circular stone stairway until he reached the tower’s exterior door. There he picked up a lantern that was never allowed to go out and stepped out into the night’s bitter cold.

The bell clanged insistently once again. Jem shook his head. Could he help it that he was no longer a boy who could run up and down the stairs? He was lucky he could still swing the gates open.

He opened the port in the gate and peered out.

Three mounted men, faces invisible beneath hoods pulled low. One of the men held what appeared to be a dead woman in front of him.

“What business?” he demanded gruffly, already thinking he might let these strangers freeze out there. He didn’t like the look of this at all.

“Open the gate, Jem Downey,” said a familiar voice. “This woman is hurt and needs attention.”

Jem peered out again, and as the nearest horse sidled, he recognized the cloaked figure. “Why, Master Archer!” he exclaimed. “’Tis a long time since you darkened this gate.”

“Too long, Jem. Are you going to let us in?”

Of course he was going to let Master Archer in. There was always a gold or silver coin in it for Jem, and the man had caused nary a whisker of trouble any of the times he had passed through town.

He quickly closed the porthole, then threw his back into lifting the heavy wood beam that barred the gate. He might have arthritis in every joint, did Jem, but he still had the strength in his back and arms.

The bar moved backward, out of the way, and Jem pushed open one side of the gate.

As the three riders started to enter single file, Master Archer, still concealed within his cloak, tossed Jem a gold piece.

“Mark me, Jem Downey,” Archer said. “There are fell things abroad. Do not open this gate again tonight. Not for anyone.”

“No, sir.” Jem bobbed his head. “Not for anyone.”

Then he stood, gold piece in hand, watching the three ride down the cobbled street toward the inn and the harvest celebration.

“Fell things, hmm?” he murmured to himself. When Master Archer said it, Jem believed it. All of a sudden he realized he was still standing outside the wall with one side of the gate open.

Unexpected fear speared him, and he looked quickly around. Snow was falling lightly, but the barren fields were empty as far as he could see.

Still…He hurried to close and bar the gate. As he locked it, an eddy of wind washed around him, chilling him to the bone.

Maybe he wouldn’t go to the harvest festival at all. Someone ought to keep a weather eye out.

The public room at the inn was crowded to the point that no person could stand or sit without being pressed tight against another. Good fellowship prevailed, however, so none minded the continual jostling.

Nanue Manoison, the most recent and probably last of the traders to come up the Whitewater River this year, held the attention of everyone in the room. One of the butter-colored people of the west, Nanue came every year to buy Bill Bent-back’s scrimshaw, and wheat from the harvest for the more crowded western climes. This year he would get scrimshaw, but no wheat.

He held the entire room rapt as he spoke of his trip east and the strangenesses he had beheld. Strangeness that ensured he would not be back this year, even if the weather took a turn for the better.

“It was like nothing I had ever seen,” he was telling the crowd. “My captain wanted to turn us around, he became so afraid. But I reminded him that we were five stout men and had little to fear on the river.”

Heads nodded around the room. Leaf smoke hung in the air.

“But,” Nanue said. “But. I tell you, my friends, it is not just the early winter. The farther we came down the pass, the eerier became the riverbank. First the deer disappeared. Never have I sailed a day on that river without seeing at least one or two deer come to drink or watch us from the shore. Then I realized that we barely heard any birdsong. None. All of you know that even in deepest winter there are birds.

“I know not where they have flown or why. But if the birds have gone, some evil is afoot, you mark my words. Some true evil. The last three days of our journey, I saw nothing living at all. And every league of the way, I felt we were being watched.”

The room became hushed. Then there was a mumbling, and finally a voice called out, “I felt it, too, Nanue Manoison. In my fields these past two weeks, trying to save what I could. It was as if I was being watched from the woods.”

“Aye,” others said, nodding.

“And the fish are gone,” someone else said. “We can fish even through the ice in winter, but there are no fish. It’s as if the river is poisoned.”

Someone else harrumphed. “Now don’t you be saying such things, Tyne. We drink the water safe enough. If ’twere poisoned, we’d be as gone as the fish.”

“It’s just an early winter,” said a grizzled voice from the farthest side of the room. “Early winter. Me granddad spoke of such in his time. It happened, he said, the year that Earth’s Root blew smoke to the sky for months, and ash rained from the heaven for many days. Maybe ’tis Earth’s Root again.”

Tom, who was standing as near Sara as he could, listened with wide-open ears. Just then, the front door of the inn flew open.

Startled, Tom turned and saw a cloaked man entering with a bundled woman in his arms. Behind him came two even taller men, faces invisible within their hoods.

“Why, Master Archer,” said Bandylegs, hurrying to greet the newcomers. “Oh my, what trouble have we here?”

“The woman is ill,” said Master Archer. “The child with her is dead. We need your best rooms, Master Deepwell. One for the woman, and one for my friends and myself.”

“Well, don’t you know, it’s as if I’ve been saving them for you,” Bandylegs said, heading for the stairway. “Two rooms with a parlor between. It’s dear, though, Master Archer.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“Fine then, fine,” said Bandylegs hurrying up the stairs with the men behind him. “Sara?”

“Aye, Dad?”

“Hot water and towels. This poor ill woman will be needing some warmth.”

“Aye, Dad.”

“I’ll help you,” Tom said quickly, his heart thundering. Master Archer, the mysterious visitor of years past. Perhaps he would get a chance this time to ply him with questions about his travels. This was clearly an adventure of some kind, too, and Tom had no intention of being cut out of it.

Sara nodded her permission, and Tom followed her to the kitchen.

Nanue Manoison tried vainly to recapture the attention of his audience, but he failed. It was as if, with the arrival of the strangers, worry had crept in, as well. People exchanged uneasy glances, and a pall seemed to settle over the room.

Little by little, the local residents drifted away, leaving the public room occupied only by trappers and traders.

Outside, the cheerful decorations blew dismally in the breath of the icy wind, and the last of the party lanterns flickered out.

Sara Deepwell had some knowledge of tending the sick. Over her short years, she’d been called upon many times to help when someone was injured or ill, most likely because her mother had been a healer and Sara had learned at her side. Many of the skills remained, and there was little in a sickroom that could shock her or cause her fear.

But as she entered the room of the mysterious woman, what she saw did shock her. Her dad had lit the fire, and by its light she could see that the woman’s ragged wrap was stained with blood. And she could see the pallor of the child clutched in her arms, a child who was plainly dead, who had a bandage around her throat.

“Great Theriel,” she murmured. Behind her, she heard Tom stumble slightly beneath his burden of a cauldron of hot water.

“Just set it over here by the fire, Tom,” she said briskly, as if there were nothing of note occurring.

Tom complied, then at her gesture left the room.

Slowly, Sara approached the bed. The child was already frozen, as cold as the ice upon the winter river. But the woman, who still breathed shallowly, was hardly much warmer.

Bending, Sara tried to take the dead child from the woman’s arms. At once her eyes flew open, eyes the color of a midsummer’s morn, and a sound of protest escaped her.

“Let me,” Sara said gently, almost crooning. “Let me. I’ll take care of her. I promise I’ll take care of her.”

Some kind of understanding seemed to creep into those blue eyes, and the woman’s hold on the child relaxed.

Gently Sara picked up the corpse, and just as gently carried it from the room. A small, thin child, no older that seven. Gods have mercy on them all, when someone would kill a child of this age.

Outside, she passed the body to a nervous Tom. “She will need a coffin, Tom. See to it.”

He looked as if he might be ill, but he stiffened and nodded.

“And treat the child as gently as if she were your own. Her mother would want it that way. Get one of the women to clean her up and dress her.”

Again Tom nodded, then headed for the stairs.

Back in the strange woman’s room, Sara found her patient had lapsed into some kind of fevered dream, muttering words and sounds that made no sense. She threw a few more logs on the fire, knowing her patient would need every bit of heat she could get.

Then, tenderly, with care and concern, Sara undressed the woman and washed her with towels dipped in hot water, chafing her skin as she did so to bring back the blood.

When she was done, her patient looked rosier and healthier. All the dried blood was gone, and the rags had been tossed upon the fire.

Gently Sara drew the blankets up to the woman’s chin and took her hand. “You’re going to be all right,” she crooned. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

But she wasn’t sure she believed her own words. With dread in her heart, Sara Deepwell went downstairs to make sure the child was being properly tended.

In the public room, all attention had fixed on Archer—or Master Blackcloak, as some called him. His two companions had disappeared into their room, unknown and unknowable, but Archer had joined the small group of men still remaining around the fire. He ordered a tankard of Bandylegs’ finest and put his booted feet up on a bench.

“A caravan was attacked,” he said in answer to the questions. “Slaughtered, every man, woman and child. The only survivor I found is the woman I brought in.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Nanue marveled. Traders and caravans were rarely attacked, for while they carried much wealth, they also traveled heavily guarded by stout men. It had been a very long time, a time almost out of memory, since anyone could recall such a thing.

“And to kill everyone,” muttered Tyne, who was seated across the room. “Thieves need only to steal a packhorse or wagon. They don’t need to kill everyone.”

“These weren’t thieves,” said Archer.

A collective gasp rose. “How can you know that?” Nanue demanded.

“Because all their goods still lay there. Bags of rice and wheat and dried meats. All of it lying there, cast about thither and yon, much ruined by blood and gore.”

The silence that filled the room was now profound, broken only by the pop and crackle from the fireplace. The chill night wind seemed to creep into the room, even as it moaned around the corners of the inn. It was as if the fire had ceased to cast light and warmth.

“Tomorrow,” Archer said, his voice heavy with something that sent chills along the spines of the perceptive, “I will return to the caravan. I will seek for some sign of the attackers, and for some sign of where they went after. I welcome any who care to join me.”

“Join you?” asked Red Boatman, stiffening on his bench. “Why should we want to tangle with such things?”

“Because you might be able to recover some wheat, meat and rice. Unless I mistake what I saw in your fields, you’ll have some use for it before this winter is done.”

A few ayes rippled around the room.

“But to steal from the dead…” Tyne sounded troubled.

“They have no more use for it,” Archer replied. “’Twere better if it saved the children of Whitewater.”

A stirring in the room, then silence. A log in the fire popped loudly.

Archer put his feet to the floor and leaned forward, scanning every face in the room. “Mark me, there is evil afoot. Evil beyond any seen in your memory. Look to your larders and look to your weapons. For none will remain untouched.”

Then he rose and strode from the room, his cloak swirling about him, opening just enough to reveal an intricately worked leather scabbard and the pommel of a sword. It seemed a ruby winked in the firelight.

No one moved until his footsteps died away.

“Who is he?” Nanue asked. “Should you trust him?”

“Aye,” said Bandylegs, who’d been listening from behind the bar. “I’d trust him with my life, I would. None know anything about him, but he’s been passing through these many years, and never a bit of trouble come with him.”

“Trouble has come with him this time,” Tyne responded darkly. “Much trouble indeed.”

Bandylegs shook his head. “Next you’ll be telling me he brought the winter. Enough, Tyne. The man is right. If there’s food up there we can use, we need to get it for our families. Beyond that, I plan to stay safe behind these walls until spring.”

A murmur of agreement answered him. It seemed the matter was settled. Once again tankards needed filling, and life settled back into it comfortable course.

If Evil were afoot, it wasn’t afoot in Whitewater.

Yet.