They rode south through Seveldrom, drifting from one village to the next seeking work, blown this way and that like a leaf on the wind.
In some places, they worked in the fields, picking end-of-season fruit and harvesting the last crops before the first frost. In one town, they laboured in the quarry, carrying stone up and down ladders. In the last village, they’d felled trees, sawing wood and eating their meals in the shade of huge oaks that made Vargus feel very small.
At first, people were intimidated by Lanny’s size, but that changed the instant he opened his mouth. A few teased him, but most of the time people were sympathetic and treated him with kindness. He won over any remaining doubters with his unwavering good cheer and remarkable strength, lifting and carrying as much as three men. No matter how simple he was, they appreciated how hard he worked and respected him for that if nothing else.
The pair of them never stayed anywhere long enough for Lanny to cause any problems. As a result, people were always sad to see them leave. It was a bittersweet way to live, but that was how it had to be for the time being.
On three occasions, Vargus caught brief glimpses of his old friend, but the moments of clarity were always fleeting. They were never able to speak for more than a few seconds, but each time the message was the same: he needed more time to heal and for now this simple life suited him.
After a few weeks of travelling south, they entered a dense forest that stretched for miles in all directions. They stopped off at the first village just before noon and sat down in the local tavern for something to eat. Vargus had barely ordered their food before noticing something was amiss. This time it wasn’t directed at them. A pair of local men were talking with the tavern owner about something that had happened in a neighbouring village.
“Torn to shreds, they were,” one man at the bar was saying to the owner. “Six or eight sheep, they reckon.”
“Must be a bear that’s gone bad in the head,” said the barman.
“That or a pack of wolves,” suggested the second man helpfully.
“No. It wasn’t none of them. My brother saw what was left. Wolves will eat their fill of the best bits—liver and the like—but this was just savage. These were just butchered. Sliced up into pieces like someone went into a rage with a scythe.”
“A bear then,” insisted the barman. “Only thing it could be. They’ve got big claws.”
The village was far from the main roads and days away from a sizeable town of any description. Out here, ghost stories weren’t laughed off so easily as they were in cities where the streets were patrolled at night. There was no King’s justice out here. Only the Elders to set things straight, and sometimes when they failed, the Gath.
Vargus accepted the two plates of food and even managed to thank the serving man, but his attention was focused on the conversation at the bar. Lanny remained oblivious and tucked into his food with relish, savouring every mouthful as if it were his last meal.
The first man at the bar lowered his voice but his words still carried in the quiet room. “There are stories about something living in the hills above Morgan’s Creek. Most locals don’t go up that far for lumber. It’s just not worth it. There’s not much up there apart from slate and a few caves. Maybe it was talk of ancient treasure, or just testing the rules, but a couple of youngsters went up there a few weeks ago and never came back.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” said the barman, waving a hand, dismissing it as nonsense. “They probably fell into the river and drowned. Or took a tumble and ended up at the bottom of a ravine.”
“Maybe,” conceded the first man.
“It’s not like they found gnawed bones, is it?” asked the barman.
“No. They found nothing. Not even a scrap of clothing.”
“Aghh, it’s just stories,” said the barman, moving away to clean some glasses.
The two men drank in silence for a while and Vargus turned his attention back to his food.
“You don’t think it’s a bear, do you?” whispered the second man.
His friend took a long drink before answering. “No. I think whatever killed those sheep also took the children. I think it’s something we’ve not seen before around here. Either it’s something new or …” He trailed off and gulped the last of his ale, suddenly afraid to say it out loud.
There was an old superstition in Seveldrom that sometimes a thing could be made real if people talked about it often enough. It could be brought into the world by describing it and giving it a name. What had been coincidences would line up and a pattern would emerge from the chaos. In the bright light of day, such ideas were nonsense, but in the hour of the wolf, in the dark heart of the night, it was a different story.
“Something new or what?” asked his friend.
“Something very old.”
Vargus had heard enough. Morgan’s Creek was two days away on horseback. As soon as he and Lanny had finished eating, they were back on the road. He had intended to rest and seek out some work in the village, but this couldn’t wait. He needed to know if it was just a rumour or something else. If it turned out to be nothing, then it wouldn’t matter. But if it was something else, something dangerous, then sooner or later they would call for the Gath.