THE ANTLERS
“Who are you and what is your business in Boggs?” the voice demanded.
Karigan fought an urge to flee, but stood her ground and gazed into the trees. Whoever it was that threatened her was well concealed. A rustling to her left indicated the speaker was not alone. Carefully she shifted her gaze and thought she caught a bit of color amid the undergrowth. She took a step forward.
“I said,” came the voice, “don’t move. Answer my questions.”
Karigan raised her hands to show they were empty of weapons, but they shook, and so she lowered them. What if these were the brigands she’d been hearing about? But from all accounts, they were not ones to ask questions.
“I intend no harm in Boggs,” she said. “My companion here was robbed by brigands on the road, all his goods stolen. He requires the attention of a mender. I, in turn, am a Green Rider in need of supplies.”
There was a pause, then, “Prove your identity.”
Waldron stirred atop Condor. “Redmon Terr, is that you?”
“Waldron?”
“She speaks the truth. Has been aiding me.”
Branches cracked as three men stepped out of the woods onto the road from various positions around her. Each was armed with hunting bows and arrows. One possessed a shortsword.
“It is against king’s law to impede the passage of travelers on the realm’s roads,” she told them.
The one she thought to be Redmon Terr gave her a thorough look up and down. “Tell that to the family of farmers raiders massacred not far from here.” He then dismissively turned toward Waldron to hear what happened to him.
Waldron gave them a brief explanation of his encounter with the bandits and how Karigan had found and helped him. They did not press him for it was clear he was not well.
Redmon Terr yanked his arrow out of the road. “You are free to pass,” he told Karigan. “Go to the Antlers. Waldron can be seen to there, and you can get your supplies.” He turned and, with his fellows, disappeared back into the woods. Clearly they were skilled hunters able to hide themselves so efficiently.
She would have to wait until she reached the village to find out more about Terr’s reference to the massacre at the farm. That was something Zachary and his advisors would want to hear about. She took up Condor’s reins once more and led him forward passing the spot where Terr had vanished into the undergrowth. She couldn’t blame them for setting up a watch to safeguard their village, but it was her duty to remind them of the king’s law. She would not report them.
The village of Boggs wasn’t much. It was composed of only a few houses, a smithy, a mercantile with a “closed” sign in its window, and the inn. The village mainly served farms and woodsmen that were off long winding roads and trails. She turned Condor toward the inn, the huge rack of moose antlers over the entrance making it obvious this was, in fact, “the Antlers.”
At first it appeared no one was about, but as soon as she began to help Waldron dismount, a man and woman emerged from the inn, and a girl trotted out of the stables, to help. Karigan found herself pushed aside as the others took over. She was just as glad, too weary to see to the potter herself. As the trio got him off Condor, the man peppered him with questions.
“Leave him be,” the woman said. “Let’s take care of him and then ask questions.”
“He was robbed on the Boggs Road,” Karigan said, answering the most pressing question. The trio paused and glanced at her as if just noticing her existence.
“Lori,” the woman told the girl, “see that the horse is settled in, then go fetch Omey. She’ll want to know.” The girl nodded and took the reins to lead Condor into the stables.
The woman gave Karigan a once-over. “You’ll be wanting something hot to eat. Come in and find yourself a place to sit while we care for Waldron.”
And that was all.
Before entering the inn, Karigan took a moment to stretch her sore back. Once inside, she found a few trestle tables and a large hearth with another rack of antlers over the mantel. The only patron was an old, gray-faced hound dog sprawled before the fire. It made sense the place was empty, as most folk would be at their labors during the day.
She dropped into a chair before the hearth, stretching out her legs, but not so far as to disturb the hound, and closed her eyes. Warm and dry for the first time in ages, she dozed off into a sleep blessedly free of nightmares. She must have been out for quite a while for when she woke up, voices buzzed around her and she sensed people moving about. She stood with a yawn and tried to shake off the grogginess. When she turned, she found patrons at each table. The hound now sat alertly at the feet of an older woman as she supped, waiting for some tidbit to fall to the floor.
Redmon Terr and his men stood up from a table and clomped out of the inn. Terr gave her a look in passing, but no other acknowledgment.
The woman who had invited her in to the inn saw her and came over, wiping her hands on her apron.
“You’re awake. I didn’t want to bother you—it seemed like you needed some rest. Why don’t you come over to a table and I’ll bring you a hot meal.”
At the thought of food, Karigan’s stomach grumbled and she sat at the table Terr and his men had just vacated. In moments the woman was back with a bowl of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and a cup of ale, which she set before Karigan.
“How is Waldron?” she asked.
“Resting. He’ll be just fine. You did a good job splinting his arm and taking care of him. I set the bone, and it doesn’t look like it will fester.” At Karigan’s look, she explained, “My name is Elda. I help here at the Antlers, but I also do some mending when it’s called for. Now eat your stew before it gets cold.” And then she was off to tend other patrons.
The stew was very good, and Karigan took her time savoring every spoonful and letting it warm her belly. After a while, however, she felt the gaze of another on her. She looked up and found the older woman, with the hound now lying beside her, watching her.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” the woman said, “but the king’s messengers never travel through Boggs. At least, not that I’ve ever heard. But it was a good thing for Waldron.”
As Karigan could not disagree, she nodded, then turned her attention back to her stew. The woman’s chair scuffed the floor as she stood and moved to hover over Karigan’s table.
“Rider Karigan, isn’t it? I am Omey. Do you mind if I sit with you? I intended to wait till you finished your meal to speak to you, but I was never good at waiting.”
Karigan schooled her annoyance. She had become too accustomed to silence and was not particularly interested in conversing with a stranger, but she gestured to the chair across from her. No doubt the woman wanted the news of the land as Waldron had.
“I sit at the head of the village council,” Omey said, taking the proffered chair.
Karigan’s spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. The village had enough people to sit a council?
“Can you tell me what the king’s plan is for dealing with the cutthroats terrorizing the countryside?” Omey asked.
Karigan set her spoon aside and straightened. This was a more formal kind of inquiry, and she had to do her part as a representative of the king.
“I have been away from Sacor City for some time, and when last I was in the king’s presence, this issue of banditry had not arisen.”
Omey nodded. “Waldron told us as much, but I wanted to confirm.”
Karigan did not relax for the older woman’s gray eyes remained keen, and still she did not ask for the usual “news of the land,” not even about the Battle of the Lone Forest, which Waldron must have mentioned if he were repeating the conversations she and he had had along the road. The danger of Second Empire must seem far off to most common folk, but that of the bandits far more present.
“You heard about the farm nearby that was massacred?” Omey asked. “The Ferris place?”
Karigan nodded.
“Good people. Worked hard to carve fields out of the forest and grow crops on rocky land. But the raiders destroyed it. Took what they wanted and murdered six members of our community.”
“I’m sorry,” Karigan replied. “I will certainly tell the king.”
“I appreciate that, Rider, as we are all grieving, but I want more. In the morning, after you’ve rested some, I want to take you out to the farm so you can see what was done, as a witness. I want you to be able to tell the king what you’ve seen with your own eyes.”
Karigan shifted in her seat, a certain dread tugging at her. “My plan was to start very early to Sacor City in the morning. The sooner I—”
“This won’t take long, Rider. You can start back as soon as we’re done and have the whole day ahead of you.” The steely resolve in Omey’s eyes brooked no argument. And, she was right, of course. As a king’s messenger, it was Karigan’s duty to bear witness to that which affected the realm and its people. She gave Omey a curt nod and rose.
Elda, who must have been watching and waiting for the right moment, came over and said, “Rider, we’ve put you in room three, just up the stairs and to the right. Your coat that Waldron borrowed, and all your gear, are there.”
“Thank you,” Karigan murmured.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Omey said.
Without another word, Karigan headed for the stairs, uneasy for what the morning would bring.
Lady Omelia Vinecarter watched after the Green Rider as she walked across the room toward the stairs. She could tell the Rider had been through hard times—not just from the eyepatch she wore, or the fading scar on her cheek, or even the state of her uniform. She could see it in the Rider’s face and how she moved as though wounded. Omey’s husband, Nickold, had been an officer in King Amadon’s army during the hostilities with the Under Kingdoms. Bad things happened to him and his comrades down there. She was not sure exactly what. He had visible scars, but he refused to speak of his experiences even at the end of his life. Her Nick, the love of all her years and her true heart mate, was never the same after his return. He’d passed away fifteen years ago, her only solace that he no longer suffered. She saw something of Nick in that Rider.
As the Rider passed beneath brighter light, Omey saw that the back of her shirt was crisscrossed by faded brown stains that were unmistakably old blood. There were a few fresher stains, as well, long and narrow stripes that layered over the old. If a wound was deep enough, it could ooze for months, especially if the injured person were too active and did not get the wounds tended regularly.
“Rider,” Omey called as the young woman started to climb the stairs, “don’t you think Elda should take a look at your back?”
The Rider paused and shook her head. “No, it’s fine.”
As she disappeared up the stairs, Omey thought there was little about that Rider that was “fine.”