Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (49 page)

Theron Wood sat amidst the ruins of his home. The big farmer, with dark leathery skin, had a short mangle of forgotten gray hair that crowned a face cut by wind and sun. He looked like a part of the earth itself, a gnarled trunk of a great tree with a face like a weathered cliff. Holding a grass cutter between his legs, he rested on the remaining wall of his home, slowly dragging a sharpening stone along the length of the huge curved scythe blade. Back and forth the stone scraped while the man stared down at the green field below, an expression on his face Hadrian could describe only as one of contempt.

“Daddy! I’m back.” Thrace ran to the old farmer, hugging him around his neck. “I missed you.”

Theron endured the squeeze and glared at them. “Are these the ones, then?”

“Yes. This is Hadrian and Royce. They’ve come all the way from Colnora to help. They can get the weapon Esra told us about.”

“I have a weapon,” the farmer growled, and resumed sharpening his blade. The sound was cold and grating.

“This?” Thrace asked. “Your grass cutter? The margrave had a sword, a shield, and armor and he—”

“Not this, I have another weapon, much bigger, much sharper.”

Puzzled, she looked around. The old man offered no insight.

“I don’t need what lies in that tower to kill the beast.”

“But you promised me.”

“And I am a man of my word,” he replied, and drew the stone along the edge of the blade once more. “The waiting only made my weapon sharper.” He dipped the stone into a bucket of water that sat beside him. He raised it back to the blade but paused and said, “Every day I wake up, I see Thad’s broken bed and Hickory’s cradle. I see the shattered barrel that Thad made, the fields I planted for him—growing despite me. Best season in a decade. I woulda reaped more than enough to pay for the contract and tools. I woulda had extra. I coulda built him a shop. I might even have afforded a sign and real glass windows. He coulda had a planed wooden door with hinges and studs. His shop woulda been better than any house in the village. Better than the manor. People would walk by and stare, wondering what great man owned such a business. How great an artisan was this town’s cooper that he could manage such a fine store?

“Those bastards back in Glamrendor who wouldn’t let Thad hang a shingle, they would never have seen the like. It woulda had a shake roof and scalloped eaves, a hard oak counter, and iron hooks to hold lanterns for when he needed to work late at night to complete all his orders. His barrels would be stacked in a storage shed beside the shop. A beautiful barn-size one, and I would paint it bright red so no one could miss it. I woulda got him a wagon too, even if I had to build it myself. That way he could send orders all over Avryn—back to Glamrendor too. I woulda driven them there myself just to see the shock and anger on their faces.

“ ‘Morning!’ I’d say, grinning like a lipless crocodile. Here’s another fine delivery of barrels from Thaddeus Wood, the best cooper in Avryn. They’d cringe and curse. Yep, that boy o’ mine, he’s no farmer, no sir. Starting with him, the Woods were gonna be artisans and shopkeepers.

“This village, it’d have grown. People woulda moved in
and started businesses of their own, only Thad’s woulda always been the first, the biggest, and the best. I’d have seen to that. Soon this here woulda been a city, a fine city, and the Woods the most successful family—a merchant family giv’n money to the arts and riding around in fine carriages. This here house woulda been a true mansion, ’cause Thad woulda insisted, but I wouldn’t care ’bout that, no sir. I’d have been content just watching Hickory grow up, seeing him learn to read and write—appointed magistrate, maybe. My grandson in the black robes! Yes sir, Magistrate Wood is going to court in a fine carriage and me standing there watching him.

“I see it. Every morning I get up; I sit; I look down Stony Hill and I see all of it. It’s right there, right in that field growing in front of me. I haven’t hoed. I haven’t tilled, but look at it. The best crop I ever grew getting taller every day.”

“Daddy, please come back with us to the Bothwicks’. It’s getting late.”

“This is my home!” the old man shouted, but not at her. His eyes were still on the field. He scraped the blade again. Thrace sighed.

There was a long silence.

“You and your friends go. I swore not to seek it, but there is always a chance it might come to me.”

“But, Daddy—”

“I said take them and go. I don’t need you here.”

Thrace glanced at Hadrian. There were tears in her eyes. Her lips trembled. She stood for a moment, wavering, then abruptly broke and ran back up the path toward town. Theron ignored her. The old farmer tilted the blade of his grass cutter to the other side and resumed sharpening. Hadrian watched him for a moment, the sounds of the stone on metal drowning out Thrace’s fading sobs. He never looked up, not at Hadrian, not to glance down the trail. The man was indeed a rock.

Hadrian found Thrace only a few dozen yards up the trail. She was on her knees, crying. Her small body jerked, her hair rocking with the movement. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Your father is right. That weapon of his is very sharp.”

Royce caught up with them, carrying a fractured piece of wood. He looked down at Thrace with an uncomfortable expression.

“What’s up?” Hadrian asked before Royce said anything callous.

“What do you think of this?” Royce replied, holding out the scrap, which might have been part of the house framing. The beam was wide and thick, good strong oak taken from the trunk of a well-aged tree. The piece bore four deeply cut gouges.

“Claw marks?” Hadrian took the wood and placed his hand against the board with his fingers splayed out. “Giant claw marks.”

Royce nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s huge. So how come no one has seen it?”

“It gets very dark here,” Thrace told them, wiping her cheeks as she stood. A curious expression crossed her face and she walked to where a yellow-flowered forsythia grew at the base of a maple tree. Taking a hesitant step, Thrace bent down and drew back what Hadrian thought was a wad of cloth and old grass. As she carefully cleaned away the leaves and sticks, he saw it was a crude doll with thread for hair and X’s sewn for eyes.

“Yours?” Hadrian ventured.

She shook her head but did not speak. After a moment, Thrace replied, “I made this for Hickory, Thad’s son. It was his Wintertide gift, his favorite. He carried it everywhere.” Plucking the last bits of grass from the doll, she rubbed it.
“There’s blood on it.” Her voice quavered. Clutching the doll to her chest, she said softly, “He forgets—they were my family too.”

Royce guessed it was still early evening when they returned to the village common, but already the light was fading, the invisible sun quickly consumed by the great trees. The little girl and her herd of pigs were gone, and so were their horses and gear. In their place, they found a host of people rushing about with an urgency that left him uneasy.

Men crossed the clearing carrying hoes, axes, and piles of split wood over their shoulders. Most were barefoot, dressed in sweat-stained tunics. Women came behind, carrying bundles of twigs, reeds, thick marsh grasses, and stalks of flax. They too traveled barefoot, with their hair pulled up, hidden under simple cloth wraps. Royce could see why Thrace had made such a big deal out of the dress they had bought her, as all the village women wore simple homemade smocks of the same natural off-white color, lacking any adornment.

They looked hot and tired, focused on reaching the shelter of their homes and dumping their burdens. As the three approached the village, one boy looked up and stopped. He had a long-handled hoe across his shoulders, his arms threaded around it.

“Who’s that?” he said.

This got the attention of those nearby. An older woman glared, still clutching her bag of twigs. A bare-chested man with thick, powerful arms lowered his pack of wood, holding tight to his axe. The topless man glanced at Thrace, who was still wiping her red eyes, and advanced on them, shifting the axe to his right hand.

“Vince, we got visitors!” he shouted.

A shorter, older man with a poorly kept beard turned his head and dropped his bundle as well. He looked at the boy who had first spotted them. “Tad, go fetch your pa.” The boy hesitated. “Go now, son!”

The boy ran off toward the houses.

“Thrace, honey,” the old woman said, “are you all right?”

The bearded man glared at them. “What they do to you, girl?”

As the men advanced, Royce and Hadrian moved together, each one looking expectantly at Thrace. Royce’s hand slipped into the folds of his cloak.

“Oh no!” Thrace burst out. “They didn’t do anything.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Disappear for weeks and you pop up crying, dressed like—”

Thrace shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just my father.”

The men stopped. They kept a wary eye on the strangers but shot looks of sympathy at Thrace.

“Theron’s a fine man,” Vince told her, “a strong man. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He just needs some time.”

She nodded, but it was forced.

“Now, who might you two be?”

“This is Hadrian and Royce,” Thrace finally got around to saying, “from Colnora in Warric. I asked them here to help. This is Mr. Griffin, the village founder.”

“Came out here with an axe, a knife, and not much else. The rest of these poor souls were foolish enough to follow, on account I told them life was better, and they was stupid enough to believe me.” He extended his hand. “Just call me Vince.”

“I’m Dillon McDern,” the big bare-chested man said. “I’m the smith round here. Figure you fellas might want to know that. You got horses, right? My boys say they took two up to the manor a bit ago.”

“This is Mae,” Vince said, presenting the old woman. She nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear that Thrace was all right, the old woman slouched, and the look in her eyes became dull and distant as she turned away with her bundle of twigs.

“Don’t mind her. She’s—well, Mae’s had it hard lately.” He glanced at Dillon, who nodded.

The boy sent running returned with another man. Older than McDern, younger than Griffin, thinner than both, he dragged his feet as he walked, squinting despite the dim light. In his hands he held a small pig, which struggled to escape.

“Why’d you bring your pig, Russell?” Griffin asked.

“Boy said you needed me—said it was an emergency.”

Griffin glanced at Dillon, who looked back and shrugged. “You find emergencies often call for pigs, do you?”

Russell scowled. “I just got hold of her. She gets riled up with Pearl all day, hard as can be to catch her. No way I’m letting her go with night coming on. What is it? What’s the emergency?”

“Turns out there ain’t one. False alarm,” Griffin said.

Russell shook his head. “By Mar, Vince, scare a body to death. Next you’ll be swinging from the bell rope just to see folks faint.”

“Twarn’t on purpose.” He dipped his head at Royce and Hadrian. “We thought these fellas were up to something.”

Russell looked at them. “Visitors, eh? Where’d you two come from?”

“Colnora,” Thrace answered. “I invited them. Esra said they could help my father. I was hoping you’d let them stay with us.”

Russell looked at her and sighed heavily, a frown pulling hard at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, well—ah, that’s okay, I guess,” Thrace said, stumbling, looking embarrassed. “I can ask Deacon Tomas if he’ll—”

“Of course they can stay with us, Thrace. You know better than to even ask.” Tucking the pig under one arm, he placed his hand to the side of her face and rubbed her cheek. “It’s just that, well, Lena and me—we was sure you were gone for good. Figured you’d found a new home, maybe.”

“I’d never leave my father.”

“No. No, I s’pose you wouldn’t. You and your pa—you’re alike that way. Rocks, the both of you, and Maribor help the plow that finds either of you in its path.”

The pig made an attempt to escape, twisting, kicking its legs, and squealing. Russell caught it just in time. “Need to get back. The wife will be after me. C’mon, Thrace, and bring your friends.” He led them toward the clump of tiny houses. “By Mar, girl, where’d you get that dress?”

Royce remained where he was as the rest started to go. Hadrian gave him a curious look but continued ahead with the others. Royce remained on the trail, unmoving, watching the villagers racing the light: fetching water, hanging out clothes, gathering animals. Pearl wandered past the well, her herd of pigs reduced to only two. Mae Drundel came out of her house, her kerchief pulled free, her gray hair hanging. Unlike the rest, she walked slowly. She crossed to the side of her home, where Royce noticed three markers like those of the Caswells’. She stood for a moment, knelt down for a time, then walked slowly back inside. She was the last villager to disappear indoors.