There were bars of iron across each of the doors. Large, thick-shanked locks kept the bars in place. Theist sigils decorated both lock and iron bar, but the temple magic was gone cold; old, Liam thought, as the bone fragment in the stable wall, but less potent.
“Not my straw men.” Holder regarded the closed rooms with resignation. “Those, in there, that’s my nuncle’s work. Ferric soldiers, my da called them. Behind those doors, lass, a vocent’s army falls to rust. The Holder brothers were venerated craftsman, awarded land and title and the throne’s recognition in silver. That is, until the Aug ordered the magi burned at the stake or hanged from the highest towers or buried still screaming in deep earth.” Holder wagged his chin at the locks. “Great-grandfather bred the Hennish cattle, aye, and his brother, my nuncle, was one of only a handful accomplished enough at the forge to smith the Automata, the great metal monsters who walked in the magi’s service.”
Arthur’s eyes were wide as saucers. “The walking machines,” he said. “But they’re dead and dismantled, their clockwork pieces scattered. Gone still and lifeless when their wicked masters were put down, without the bone magic to animate them.”
Thinking of Mal, Liam shifted uneasily. Holder caught his eye then turned and spat deliberately into the straw.
“Kingsmen took my nuncle off in chains to face charges of treason, and he a loyal man. Afterward they destroyed his forge, and his home, and carted away what pieces of the Automata they could carry. The rest are there. A priest set words into the locks while Grandfather wept over his brother’s loss.”
“Can we see them?” Parsnip demanded. “I want to see them!”
“Hush!” Liam scolded. “That’s a bloody history, Parsnip. One better forgotten.” But he couldn’t keep from glancing furtively at the sigils in the iron.
Holder grimaced. “A different time, to be sure. Good men tried as monsters and evil lurking about in the guise of good men. No, lass. Nuncle’s closets are shut tight. I wouldn’t open them again if I could. I’m loyal to throne and temple; my da never let me forget what happens to those who aren’t.”
“It’s hot and I’m thirsty,” Morgan said quietly. “Shall we go and taste the well?”
Liam nodded. “Build our men and settle your wagon,” he ordered the farmer. “But don’t take overlong about it.”
Holder looked as if he’d like to spit again, but instead he gathered up his hat, set it firmly back on his head, and did as he was bid.
Pages and horses both drooped visibly when they at last rode away from Holder’s property. Holder’s well was deep, the water sweet, but the tree had been scorched by the same fire that had gutted the homestead and the blackened trunk and split branches provided little shade. They drank, washing dust from their faces while they waited, subdued. By the time Holder appeared around the corner of his barn, cheerful red wagon strapped to another doe-eyed black cow, Arthur and Morgan were grown fractious and Parsnip skittish.
Liam cast an eye over the inside of the wagon as Morgan whistled their horses to hand. He counted the five straw men twice over then checked to make sure their limbs and pumpkin heads were securely attached. Holder, standing alongside his cow, long whip in hand, grunted.
“If you’re satisfied I’ll be having one penny now.” He held out calloused palm. “The rest on delivery. As is usual.”
Liam sorted a shining coin from Lane’s pouch without comment. If he flung himself onto the gray’s back with more force than necessary, none but the gelding noticed. The horse forgave him the small show of temper. The gray liked Holder and his whip no more than Liam did, and was eager to be off toward home and supper.
Morgan and Arthur and Parsnip rode ahead down the lane. Holder and his wagon trundled behind, quickly joined by his brindled hound that appeared all at once from the crop. Glad to be quit of the barn and its worrisome past, Liam brought up the rear.
He’d only recently begun to understand that, when it came to learning, history might be just as important as proper speaking and weapons practice. The Down’s lore that had served him well as a lad was but a sliver of a much larger whole. Much of what he’d swallowed down as the way of the world he’d gotten on the Widow’s hearth, either from the old woman herself or passing travelers who took no notice of the grubbing lad bussing tables or tending stable.
He knew from the Widow how to cut a good stout with a thinner brew and serve it up with a smile, which part of the sheep to let stew the longest, how to tend the winter tubers so they came from the soil ripe and plump, and how to chivvy a man back out into the cold when he’d had too much to drink and ignored last call. He’d learned from experience how to soothe a restive gelding and avoid a stallion’s strike. He could walk a mare through a gas colic and see her right at the end of it, he knew a man’s status in the world from the state of his horse’s tack, and he knew to put a pinch of salt in each bucket of mash to keep an animal from foundering.
Aye, Liam thought, staring between the gray’s long ears at the back of Holder’s wagon, there’d been a great deal of happiness on the Downs, up above the world and as removed from flatlander woes as any sparrow in the sky. While not easy, an orphan’s lot in Stonehill had been simple.
Until Mal had come seeking Avani, swathed all in black leather, wielding fancy words and a sharp sword with equal skill. Even before Liam had known Mal for the magus he was—the last vocent, the most powerful man in the kingdom but for the one who sat the throne—he’d known he must be a hero. Despite his size and crooked nose Malachi Doyle cut a striking figure amongst Stonehill’s shepherd folk. He’d treated Liam with quiet respect, the sort a stable boy hadn’t realized existed, even as Stonehill fell to pieces about their ears and the dead rose up and Liam was near to pissing himself in fright.
Hardly a day had passed before Liam knew he’d willingly lay down his life for such an unusual man, just as Mal risked his own for Liam on the Downs. As easy as that Mal had Liam’s loyalty, and later his pledge as squire. It was Liam who’d kept Mal alive aboard The Cutlass Wind, Liam who cajoled the magus until he sipped at the red wine that kept him calm over deep water, and Liam who kept Mal from doing himself harm when the wine ceased to work.
In Roue he’d killed his first man for Mal, and his second, and sometime after his third and fourth. It hadn’t been as difficult a chore as some men seemed to find it, nor pleasant, either. It was a thing he did for his master, like tatting up the holes in his trousers or reminding Mal to eat on the days he forgot. He’d been proud of his service; so easily Liam had given the vocent his heart.
More difficult to take it back again when things began to go sour. More difficult by far.
They rode past the gray stone obelisk without remarking. The flowers were dried in the sun. Holder snapped his whip at the black cow’s haunches, urging her faster. Arthur rolled his shoulders up about his ears and looked forward. His discomfit made him seem much younger than his years. Morgan, recognizing his friend’s sorrow, glanced at Liam before beginning to sing. It was a foolish lay about frog and a princess—one recently popular in Wilhaiim’s taverns—much too bawdy for good company but the lad’s voice was so sweet and innocent as he sang that even Parsnip couldn’t complain.
They stopped at Flossy Creek, again to water their horses and splash their faces. Even the farmer seemed grateful for the respite; he scooped up handfuls of cold mud from the creek bed, rubbing the muck beneath and above the cow’s eyes, then again on her spine over the base of her tail.
“Keeps the flies off,” Holder explained when he saw Liam watching. He pointed to where his brindled hound rolled on the bank. “Even Bear knows the way of it.” The farmer smiled reluctantly when the hound rooted in the mud. When she rose again she was head-to-toe muck, her stripes hidden beneath a layer of brown, her pink nose startling against the dirt on her snout.
It was the hound that alerted them first to trouble, although that night as he lay awake on his cot listening to the sound of the barracks settling Liam wondered if he knew the danger before even she did. It seemed impossible, but he recalled missing a stride as his heart leapt in recognition an instant before Bear lifted her wedge-shaped head, sniffing the air, and then began to bark.
“What is it?” Parsnip asked, staring down at the hound and then up across the crop. The chestnut danced briefly beneath her but settled again, too hot to make much of the noise.
“Pheasant, likely,” Morgan suggested, but he frowned. “It’s too early in the day for deer.”
“Bear!” Holder snapped his fingers. The hound came immediately to heel, her barks stifled behind her teeth, but she shivered as she did so, tucking her tail between her legs.
“Bear and her kin hunt more dangerous game,” the farmer said, grim. “The sidhe folk grow bolder each day, but I’d not thought to find one aboveground before sunset.” Holder set a hand on the hound’s head, restraining. Together they glared into the wheat. “No offense intended, young man.”
“None taken.” Liam felt mortification stain his cheeks. Then he huffed laughter as the wheat split, making the horses jump and Arthur curse, and birthed a foursome of hectic brown birds. “Only turkeys, after all, come for water.” He’d never disliked anyone so much as he disliked the farmer and his knowing sneer. He stopped Arthur when the lad reached for his mace. “Let it be, they look parched, poor things.”
“Not the birds, sir,” Arthur hissed. “Look there!” Holder’s cow began to bellow. Morgan cried, “Get back!”
The barrowman slunk out of the crop a finger’s length behind the last turkey, crushing amber stalks beneath bony feet as it grasped after feathers, crouching low to the ground, naked in the loam. No larger than a child, it carried a primitive bronze knife between its sharp teeth and wore an incongruous fur cap pulled down over greasy, matted hair. Its chest was sunken, its ribs stark as fence rails, its flat black eyes large and lidless. Liam knew the creature for one of the lesser sidhe, little more than an animal, as unlike the elegant aes si Faolan as Arthur’s pony to the king’s finest destrier.
Greed made the barrowman careless. Intent on the hunt, it had eyes only for the scattered flock. Bear was off the road and through the turkeys before the sidhe realized its mistake; the brindle hound snarled as she sprang. The turkeys squawked and took awkwardly to the air, wings beating. The sidhe made no sound as it scuttled sideways away from the Bear’s snapping jaws. Holder loosed a shout as he swung his scythe but the barrowman was faster. Severed stems of wheat fell where the creature had stood a heartbeat earlier, but the sidhe had vanished back into the crop as quickly as it had appeared.
Without waiting for her master’s permission, Bear hurdled after.
“Skald’s balls!” Arthur crowed. “An ugly bugger, weren’t it? And cat quick!”
Holder squatted in the dirt between road and field. “Blood,” he pronounced, stirring a finger through fallen wheat. “Look here. And here.”
Liam tossed his reins to Morgan and went to see for himself. The fresh smear of scarlet on broken sheaves made his heart sink. Fat red drops, still wet, besprinkled ground and crop both.
“Not Bear’s,” the farmer said. “Barrowman was gone before she touched down.”
Liam parted the amber wall with a hand. The wheat felt warm against his fingers. The splatter led straight back before disappearing again in the sheaves.
“Turkey, mayhap,” Arthur suggested. “It was after a bit of supper.”
“That’s an awful lot of blood for a turkey,” Parsnip argued, standing in her stirrups for a better look. “Besides, the birds are all there, in one piece—” she pointed to where the turkeys, irate, watched from a safe distance “—and it hadn’t anything on it but the knife and funny hat.”
“It was a trapper’s bonnet,” Holder agreed, straightening. He scanned the fields, expression thunderous. “Happens George Farrow, who makes his living in the fur trade, rents land just over that way.” He pointed west across wheat.
Liam remembered the patch of green against gold, the distant farmhouse sheltered in a shady copse, and the raven circling indolently overhead. The raven was gone now, the sky unbroken by wings or cloud.
“I’m going after my dog,” Holder declared. “I lost her brother to a barrowman earlier this season. I won’t lose Bear, too. She’d be back by now, that one, if she’d lost the trail. She knows her job.”
“Wait. I’ll come with you,” decided Liam. He turned from the bloodied wheat to his three charges, saw their excitement, and crushed it. “Parsnip, ride ahead, as fast as you can. Send the guard to Farrow’s cottage; tell them to look for me there. You two—” he beetled his brows at Arthur and Morgan, ignoring their scowls “—get the cow and cart safely to barracks, let the armswoman know you’ve brought home her goods.”
“But—” Morgan protested.
“Do as I say,” Liam snapped. “And be quick about it.”
Parsnip turned her chestnut, kicking it into a gallop toward Wilhaiim. The clatter of her departure sent the turkeys to flapping. Arthur dismounted, tied his pony and the gray gelding to the back of the wagon, then took up Holder’s long whip. He cracked it once; the black cow walked obediently forward.
“Bear’s left a plain trail,” Holder said, stepping into the wheat. When Liam followed, the crop closed around his shoulders and over the farmer’s head. “Straight back and then west.”
Liam loosened his sword in its scabbard. “Farrow’s cottage at the end of it,” he predicted.
“Know that for certain, do you?” Holder flicked a glance over his shoulder. It was oddly cool inside the crop. The wheat smelled ripe.
Liam nodded but didn’t elaborate. One for sorrow, Arthur had said upon seeing Jacob riding the wind. Now Liam wished he’d paid more attention.
“Did the trapper have a family?”
“Just the wife.” Holder used the tip of his scythe to bludgeon a larger trail over the hound’s spoor. “I came upon her once this spring, hunting for truffles near the Maiden. She said they regretted the lack now they counted themselves lucky because they had no child for the Worm to steal away.”
Liam spotted more scarlet in the amber, bloody streaks left on the wheat at knee height. He whistled softly to draw Holder’s attention, nodded at the stain.
“Not so lucky after all,” Liam said with regret. “If I read the signs aright.”
Bear’s track ran straight west. The barrowman, if it had come from Trapper Farrow’s land, seemed to be doubling back. The hound’s prints were clear in the soft ground. Less distinct were the sidhe’s footprints, long narrow toes and flat arches scuffed into the topsoil.
“They’ve got bones like birds,” Holder murmured as they paused where Bear had pressed a patch of the crop flat with her circling before continuing on. “Hollow inside, but strong. Makes them light across the ground, and fast.”
Liam frowned. “Do you know, or are you guessing?”
“Caught one in my barn, once.” The farmer glanced up at the sun, checking its place on the horizon, before striding on. “A long time ago, when I was about your age. Aye, it was quick, but all the iron in the building muddled its head, like. We backed it into a corner and used our cudgels to strike it down. Da struck off its head for safety. We trained the dogs on its bones.” Holder hummed thoughtfully. “It never made a sound as it died. I thought mayhap it lacked a tongue, but Da wrenched open its jaw and it did have one, just like our own, behind sharp teeth.”
Liam gulped back bile. “You might have left it alone. Could be it meant you no harm.”
Holder’s dark mirth shook the wheat. “It must be true what they say in the taverns and on the city streets, then. You’ll defend the sidhe folk, will you, even after they marked you all over with their sign? I wonder, are your bones hollow or have you marrow like a man?”
“I am a man,” Liam retorted. “A better man than you, I ken.” He ached with wanting to knock the farmer into the dirt. He bit the inside of his lip until the desire passed.
“You’re young, yet,” retorted Holder. Then: “Hsst! Softly, now. Bear’s spoor ends here with the wheat. That’s Farrow’s smokehouse up ahead.”
They’d come further, faster, than Liam had realized. Bear’s trail—or the sidhe’s—had indeed run straight as a compass point through the crop. Golden stalks fell away to puny brown stems then cleared to dirt. The trees they’d glimpsed from the road were green even in the heat, leaves large as dinner plates. Farrow’s sturdy stone cottage squatted atop a low, grassy hill on the other side of the pleasant grove. On the flat land between trees and wheat field, up off the soil on short stilts, stood a square brick building with a high, peaked roof and a narrow chimney.
Two tom turkeys hung by their feet from a hook outside the smokehouse door. The birds were headless, much fatter than the hens the barrowman had chased through the crop. A draining bowl lay overturned on the ground beneath them, contents spilled. Flies buzzed hungrily around a slop of drying gore and scattered feathers.
“That explains it,” Holder said as they cautiously approached the brick outbuilding. “Barrowman filched its supper here and filled its belly while tracking the hens.”
Liam studied the pair of sundered talons hanging alongside the two toms. The feet were knotted in the same rope. Flies feasted on dangling flags of flesh where the rest of the corpse had been pulled away.
“Sidhe couldn’t loosen the bindings,” Liam hazarded. “Easier just to wrench the meat down. But why didn’t it take the whole brace?” He tested the brace. The birds were heavy, and it took strength to snap bone and tear flesh as the barrowman had done.
Liam looked away from the turkeys, toward the cottage. It was a pretty plot, carefully tended, with flowers in clay pots near a regimented vegetable garden and hens scratching about beneath a sturdy coop. A sandy path on the opposite side of the rise wound toward a separate stone cellar.
The cottage door was shut; painted blue shutters obscured the single window. Liam smelled old wood smoke but the chimney was cold. Except for the busy chickens, the homestead felt deserted.
“Something scared it off,” Holder agreed. “Not Farrow, he wouldn’t have left this mess untended.” The farmer bared his teeth in resignation. “Draw your sword; this place is too quiet for my comfort.”
They passed beneath the trees, briefly escaping sunlight before stepping back into heat. A nanny goat lay on her side in the shade against the cottage stoop. She watched them as they crossed the knoll, ears flicking indolently. Her udders were distended. She bleated as they neared the house, but didn’t make to rise.
“Hello the house!” Holder shouted. “George Farrow, are you about?”
They had no answer but the nanny’s imperative cry.
“Try the door,” Holder said.
The latch fell easily open to Liam’s hand. He pushed and the door swung open. The house breathed out warm air and with it the scent of stale lard and fresh beeswax. Past the square of light on rough floorboards from the open door, the single room was dark.
“Mistress Farrow?” Liam called over the threshold. “Mistress? Are you in?”
“Move aside,” Holder ordered. The farmer set his scythe down on the stoop, took a stub of candle and a flint from his belt, and lit the wick. Cupping the flame in with one hand, he stepped into the house, saying over his shoulder, “Stay here.”
Liam did as he was asked, although with growing trepidation. His fingers cramped and sweated on the pommel of his sword. His mouth was dry. Waiting, he thought, as the low sun beat across the back of his neck and his sword grew heavy, was hard.
Holder threw the shutters open from inside, startling both Liam and the nanny goat. The goat jumped up, shaking herself all over. Liam scowled.
“Forsaken,” the farmer declared over the sill. He blew out the flame of his candle. “Come in and see for yourself. Bring my blade.”
Liam sheathed his sword. He entered the cottage, deliberately stepping over the scythe on the stoop. Holder growled. Ignoring him, Liam took stock of the small space. Farrow’s home was remarkable only for the abundance of furs hung on the walls and spread across the low bed. A wooden screen divided the bedroom from the living area. A cook pot was suspended over dead ashes on the hearth; two empty plates waited nearby. When Liam looked into the pot he found a congealed stew.
“Today’s breakfast,” he guessed as Holder returned with his scythe securely on his belt. “Much longer than a day in this weather and it would start to stink. Table laid out but they didn’t get around to eating.”
“They were expecting trouble,” Holder said. “Or they’ve had some. This is recent.” He indicated a narrow wooden shingle nailed to the lintel just inside the cottage door. A single theist sigil decorated the tile. The elaborate rune pulsed cloudy silver.
“Protective spell like that lightened Farrow’s purse considerably,” the farmer said, impressed. “Be a shame if it failed him in the end.”
Liam regarded the other man with dislike. “The cottage is undisturbed,” he pointed out.
“Best check everywhere,” Holder agreed. “Leave the window open. I see the dust of horses down the lane. The guard’ll want a good look once they’re here.” Apparently not inclined to sit and wait for the Kingsmen, he started over the hill in the direction of the cellar, scattering chickens as he went.
Liam hurried after. The path snaked its way down the hill between a family of young birch trees. Here and there a white stump stuck out of the grass where Farrow had taken time to clear away growth. At the base of the hill a small pond, festooned with late-flowering lily pads, butted up almost against the cellar’s gray stone foundation. Frogs voiced a merry chorus, heralding the coming evening.
The stone cellar sat low to the ground, flat-roofed and windowless. Someone had painted the plank door a cheerful blue to match the cottage shutters. It was unlocked. Behind the door, gray stone steps led straight down into the earth. When Holder kindled his candle stub again they glimpsed pelts of all shapes and sizes hanging from low eaves.
“Lantern,” Liam said, plucking it off a hook inside the door. Holder touched his wick to the chimney. Partway down into the earth, Liam held the light over his head. He couldn’t help but admire Farrow’s skill; amongst the more common deer and rabbit skins he saw the more difficult fox, beaver, and bear.
“There’ll be plenty more below,” Holder said with grudging admiration. “Farrow’s got a knack for the business. Not just the trapping, but the tanning and cutting. George!” He shouted past Liam. “Are you down here, man?”
Liam counted fifteen steps down into cellar. The air grew chill. Niches were cut into the earthen walls: rough shelves filled with jars of fruit and vegetable and smoked meat put up until winter. The bottom chamber was simple, square, and cold. Piles of fur hid the dark earth below. In the light of the lantern the pelts shone brown and silver and sable. Many were striped and several were beautifully piebald. It was an abundance of riches.
In the scant light of the lantern Liam didn’t immediately understand that much of the dappling was evidence of slaughter. Then stink of blood and bowel hit and he gasped, and used the edge of his sleeve to cover his nose.
“Aug save us.” Holder took the lantern from Liam’s trembling fingers. He held it out, gaping down at the dead man atop the mound of furs. “The barrowman’s killed him.”
“Is it Farrow?” Breathing shallowly, Liam made himself step close for a better look. The corpse lay on its back, eyes closed, limbs lax. If not for the spatter of fluid marring the furs he might have been simply resting.
“Aye.” Holder took the lantern carefully around the small space, shining light over a second, lesser pile of pelts and into every corner. “But where’s his goodwife? Not here. The guard will be at the cottage by now. Go up and catch their attention, lad. It’s here they’re needed.” He sighed, gazing again upon Farrow. “I’ll keep George company whilst you do, poor man.”
Liam nodded. Heart in his throat, he raced back up the steps into daylight. He didn’t mind the crash of heat; it was far better than the reek of death caught in the cellar. He ran back up the trail, shouting. Through the young birch grove he caught the flash of Kingsman red. He heard the stamp of restless hooves then a familiar baying.
The brindled hound raced to great him, tongue lolling. Lather ran in strings from her jaws. Liveried soldiers jogged in her wake and with them, to Liam’s chagrin, hastened Malachi and Avani.