Morgan’s Creek was located deep in the southern forests of Seveldrom and, as expected, most of the people they met were in the lumber trade. With the majority spending a great deal of their life outdoors, the locals were all tall, rugged and broad with big shoulders. For once Lanny didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
The village had no wall or defensive barricade, but Vargus noticed the road in was watched by a spry girl who ran ahead of their horses. By the time they arrived at the edge of the village, two men and a woman were waiting. All were carrying weapons: long knives bordering on short swords and bows slung over their shoulders. They weren’t brandishing them but he could see everyone was nervous. Vargus was confident the villagers knew how to use them. This far south they hunted with bows first and blades second, to bring down quarry or fight off large predators. The people of Seveldrom were not the sort to be caught unaware and yet something had surprised the villagers here.
“We heard the news,” said Vargus without preamble, pointing at the bastard sword protruding above his shoulder. “Came to help.”
The woman at the front of the group relaxed a little, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. She looked at Vargus, then up at Lanny who grinned and waved, which made the corners of her mouth quirk slightly.
“We can’t pay you, if you’re swords for hire.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” said Vargus. “But we are looking for work. I figure the sooner things go back to normal around here the better. Perhaps there might be a bit of work going at the mill for a couple of strong backs.”
“Perhaps,” said the woman. “I’m Cerille.”
“Vargus. This is my nephew, Lanny.”
“Are you the Elder?” asked Lanny, earning another curious look from Cerille. “She doesn’t look old enough. She’s too pretty to be the Elder,” he said to Vargus, unaware that the others could hear him.
Despite his tactless approach, Lanny was right. Vargus guessed Cerille was not even thirty years old. Thankfully she took the comments in good humour.
“I am the Elder of Morgan’s Creek,” she said somewhat proudly. “And I’m a lot older than I look,” said Cerille, favouring Lanny with a wink.
“Aren’t we all,” muttered Vargus, getting off his horse to stretch his legs.
The two local men kept watch on the road, while Cerille led them into the village. It was a fairly large settlement and there were signs that it was growing. Vargus saw the skeletal frames of six new houses on a surrounding hill with space cleared for more nearby. About a mile away, he could see the top of the mill and heard the distant sawing of wood.
A narrow creek, barely half a dozen paces wide and not even a foot deep, ran through the middle of the main square. A quaint stone bridge arched over the water but it looked more decorative than functional. Several basic bridges fashioned from worn planks had been laid out across the water.
“Can’t we go over the little bridge?” asked Lanny as Cerille led them towards one of the wooden crossings.
“No, it’s too old. It wouldn’t carry the weight of your horse,” she said to Lanny. “The original settlers used it when they built the village.”
“Why do you have a bridge if no one uses it?”
Cerille raised an eyebrow at Vargus and mouthed the word “slow” to which he nodded.
While Cerille tried to explain to Lanny about the bridge’s cultural significance to the villagers, Vargus studied the locals. Everyone was going about their business as normal, but they seemed unusually alert, as if they were expecting trouble. Most people had a dagger or short sword on their belt, which was customary, but several also carried spears and axes.
It wasn’t a bear. One bear, however savage, would not have put them all on edge like this.
Cerille led them to a roughly fashioned building which showed signs of considerable age. The exterior was worn and the wood so ancient in places it was almost like stone. Around the door-frame, so many people had carved their names that they overlapped, creating a random and illegible pattern. Seasonal workers often drifted south during the summer months and these bunkhouses were used to accommodate them. Despite living such nomadic lives, even drifters wanted to leave a mark to show others where they’d been and that they mattered.
“Get yourselves settled, then come and find me at the Fighting Cock,” said Cerille, gesturing at the tavern on the far side of the village. “I’ll see to your horses.”
She took the reins and led their horses away to the stables while they stored their gear. Only a handful of the fifty sets of bunks showed any signs of recent use. The rest were covered with cloths and the mattresses rolled up on top. Vargus picked a set of beds at the far end, putting some distance between them and the others. Lanny got along with most people but some just couldn’t stand his childish ways. They seemed to believe his way of thinking was a disease they might catch. Besides he also snored worse than anyone Vargus had ever heard and getting him to turn over at night was always a challenge.
Vargus stored his stuff in the locker at the foot of the bunks and took only his sword and their money with him. Lanny couldn’t be trusted to carry any money and Vargus made him leave his broadsword behind. Sometimes when he got excited, he swung it about without thinking like any other child play-fighting.
They made a circuit of the village, and while no one was unfriendly, there was a palpable tension in the air.
“They’re scared,” whispered Lanny, for once managing not to shout. Vargus agreed. This also went beyond two children going missing and a few dead sheep.
The sign hanging above the door of the Fighting Cock was not what Vargus had expected. Instead of a pair of roosters, it showed an armoured chicken with a breastplate, helmet and even a shield. The artist had a peculiar sense of humour. Lanny was mesmerised and would have stayed rooted to the spot staring in open-mouthed wonder if Vargus hadn’t dragged him inside.
It was late in the afternoon so the only drinkers were a couple of toothless old men in one corner. They were bemoaning the current state of the world, loudly proclaiming about how it had been much better in their youth. Vargus couldn’t help smiling at the pair. It was nice to see that some things never changed.
Cerille was sat at the bar with a broad-shouldered man with thick grey hair, a bushy moustache, and every part of his clothing was sprinkled with sawdust. He peered up at Lanny from under wild eyebrows.
“These are the two I was telling you about,” said Cerille to the man as they approached. “This is Yaffe. He’s the foreman at the mill. He also led one of the groups that went out two days ago.”
Yaffe seemed to be a man who wasted no time. He rolled up one of his shirt sleeves to reveal a bandage which he carefully peeled off. Underneath, Vargus saw a long red welt and a nasty gash that ran the length of his forearm. The wound was angry but didn’t look infected. Cerille helped him wrap it up again before he rolled down his sleeve.
“It’s not a bear,” said the bluff man. “It might be about the same size, but it moved too quick.”
“How do you know?” asked Vargus.
“I had to kill a bear once,” said Yaffe, rubbing his mouth as if trying to get rid of a sour taste. Or a bad memory. “Didn’t want to, but it left us no choice. I’ve seen an angry bear, but it wasn’t like this,” he said gesturing at his arm.
“What did it look like?” asked Lanny. The others hadn’t noticed anything, but Vargus saw the subtle shift in his brother’s posture. The straightening of his shoulders. The focus of his stare.
“Didn’t get a good look. But it was maybe seven feet long. Dark brown or black, maybe. I just saw its claws. Seemed like a bear at first but there was something wrong with its face. Only saw it for a second.”
Yaffe grabbed the half-full glass from the bar and drained the rest in a couple of loud gulps. Looking from the corner of his eye, Vargus noticed Lanny wasn’t paying attention any more. His eyes were drifting over the many different coloured glass bottles behind the bar. Late afternoon sunbeams were coming in through the windows, making them dance with reflected light.
Vargus thought about pushing the foreman but changed his mind. He had an idea what it might be, but in the end it didn’t really matter. Bloodthirsty bear or something else, it had to be dealt with.
“How many did you lose?” Vargus asked instead.
“Three.”
“How many went on the hunt?”
Yaffe rubbed his mouth again. “Eight. Most of those who made it back have scars like mine.”
“Still interested?” asked Cerille.
Lanny was lost in the wonder of a sparkling beam of sunlight that made dust in the air shimmer like diamonds. Yaffe was trapped in the past, bitter at what had happened and those he’d lost. And the old men were lost in history, remembering things that probably hadn’t happened with minds fogged by age.
Only he and Cerille seemed to be in the present, willing to deal with the problem they were facing.
“When do we start?”