4
On his way back to the village, he passed the site of the skirmish. The ground still remained torn and broken, but now he could see signs of other activity. Fresh holes had become scratched into the mounds and new ditches, where animals had foraged for the flesh of the dead. Bones with remnants of flesh had become scattered all around. An arm, nothing more than bone and pieces of sinew lay in his path, still gripping a small battle axe.
Gagging, covering his mouth and nose, Mythrd crouched beside that arm and, with trepidatious fingers, uncurled the bone fingers from the shaft of the axe. Alone, now, without Gythryn by his side, he felt more than a little exposed. Vulnerable. If he met a Traal in daylight, as unusual as that may be, or more Gaeradine searching for their kinfolk, he had nothing to defend himself.
Tumbling away, once he had the axe, he retched but held in the food the old man had cooked. Ripping a clump of grass from the ground, he rubbed the shaft and head of the axe, trying to rid it of any gore that remained. The axe felt heavy, far heavier than a wood axe, but it sat in his hand with a balance that a wood axe did not have.
A wood axe held all the weight at the head, used only for one thing. A battle axe needed to move faster, in many directions. He hefted it, giving several practice swings before examining it closer. The shaft, made from strong oak, was dark and solid. The head had a larger blade to it than a wood axe, curving both ways in a quarter moon shape, with a spike at the other side, to counter the weight of the blade. Intricate carvings festooned the head, of twisting, interlocking ribbons.
Tucking the axe into his belt, he turned away from the battle ground, heading north, up the hill. He should reach the village within the hour, if he pressed hard enough, though he felt reluctant to make haste, lest he reach the village and face the wrath of not only Abbot Llwnthrn, but of his father and mother. His parents were good folk, but times were dark and they would not abide him staying out all night.
It seemed like any other day as Mythrd found the path that lead to Yrstl, well used, with cart ruts on either side of the central raised section. His fingers kept moving to the head of the axe, as he walked, and he realised that carrying the thing, no matter his reasoning, would only raise questions he wasn't certain he wanted to answer. He did like that axe, though.
Before reaching the outskirts of the village, he found one of his and Gythryn's favourite places. A lightning blasted tree that had sat dead and rotting for years, far longer than he had lived. Though it had passed to a point where the rot had slowed and the broken bole of the tree now had a dried solidity to it. The tree, however, had a dip in the top, only reachable by climbing. There, he could hide the axe until he made his way back to Cythrûn Henge.
Once he had hidden the axe, he made his way around the edge of the village, heading towards the modest home of his parents. Even at this early hour, people were already walking the only street of the village. Some heading to the well, at the centre, others moving out to perform their jobs, out in the fields. Still others walked without purpose, enjoying the chill of the morning.
Hiding before taking the last few steps to his home, he waited for a moment where no-one could see him cross the small tap between houses. If he caught it at the right time, his mother would be at the well, picking up fresh water, and his father would have taken his wood axe upon his shoulder, for his day of cutting down trees, far out into the surrounding forest. As the coast cleared, he set himself to move.
"And what, pray tell, do you think you're doing?" He felt a tap from something hard upon his shoulder and turned to find Abbot Llwnthrn glaring at him, her cane in hand. "And where is that lazy Gythryn?"
"Abbot!" Pressing himself back against the wall of the neighbour's house, Mythrd almost squealed in surprise. "I'm just going home. Just that. A lot of things to do, you know? At home."
"And you're good-for-nothing friend?" The Abbot's height always intimidated Mythrd. So tall, with long, grey hair tied in a severe bun atop her head, the Abbot had always seemed like some kind of tree that walked. "Out with it! The girl has chores to perform and her bed roll has not seen her last night. Where is she?"
Mythrd looked to both sides. Searching for an escape, or support from someone else, he couldn't decide. Probably both. He had no escape, however. He knew that cane of the Abbot's would flash out and crack atop his skull at the first sign of him trying to run. He felt a sense of desperation rise within him. A panic he hadn't even felt the night before, surrounded by howling Traal.
Abbot Llwnthrn stepped forward, the hem of her long, ochre coloured robes dragging along the ground. The rope belt, with several metal baubles attached to it, each denoting one of the Patrons worshipped on Iibar, rattled as she moved. She leaned forward and down, looming over Mythrd as he tried to tamp down his panic. Close enough to sniff him, her grey eyes bored into his.
"We ... we were foraging ... for wild herbs and we forgot the time of day." He didn't even believe himself and this woman, with decades worth of intimidating people far stronger than he, would see through his lies with ease. "Before we knew it, night had fallen. We took refuge in the henge for the night."
"Foraging? Play-fighting, more like." Stepping back, the Abbot placed her fists upon her hips, her can, still in hand, poking out behind her. Llwnthrn shook her head. "You are too old to play at soldiers and fairy tales, boy! You're of age, for Patrons' sake! Grow up and get these silly notions out of this thick head."
As she said those last words, she swished her cane back around her body and swatted the top of his head to every word. It felt like she had hidden lead weights in the tip, sending white flashes of pain through his skull with every tap. Gythryn would have glared at the Abbot for that. Mythrd could only cower, trying to cover his head with his hands.
"Sorry, Abbot Llwnthrn. Sorry!" When the taps ended, he tried a tentative glance up to her. "I will. I'll grow up. I promise."
"And Gythryn? What is she really doing?" The hands returned to her hips, though she bounced her cane behind her, now, ready to lash out again should she not like his response. "That girl needs to get these ideas of being a soldier out of her head. She's promised to the Patrons and they come before all."
Rubbing the top of his head, Mythrd tried to think of something to say. He couldn't very well tell the Abbot about the Gaeradine soldier, nor anything about the old man, Kaninzir. As he thought about it, he remembered Gythryn telling him that a lie, mixed with half-truths, was always better received. If he could add a pinch of truth to the lie, perhaps he could even fool Abbot Llwnthrn.
As he thought of what to say, he could see the Abbot's patience wearing thin. Her lips had pursed, her forehead wrinkled even more and a little wrinkle at the top of her nose became more pronounced. That cane reemerged from behind her and began to tap against her leg.
"We did stay in the henge! We did!" Holding out his hands, wincing before a blow had even struck, Mythrd blurted out the first thing he could think of. "She ... she twisted an ankle and we were too far from the village. It was getting dark and there were Traal everywhere. But they didn't enter the stone circle. I just came back for something to wrap her foot in and some food and water and ..."
"Traal? More than one of them?" The Abbot's frown darkened and she stepped forward once more. "How many Traal?"
"I don't know, it was dark and I was a little scared and ..." The irritated sigh from the Abbot stopped him in full flow. He tried to focus. "Maybe as many as a dozen. Maybe more, maybe less. I'm not certain. A few, though."
Abbot Llwnthrn turned away, pinching her bottom lip, tapping her cane against her leg. She looked at him, the lines on her forehead deeper than Mythrd remembered ever seeing them. It seemed mentioning the Traal had veered the Abbot away from her concerns about Gythryn and Mythrd didn't know why he hadn't mentioned them straight away.
True, he had intended telling the village about the Traal, and of the skirmish between the two sets of soldiers, but he had hoped he could do that later, after he and Gythryn had decided what to do with the injured Gaeradine. He hadn't wanted to let anyone know about Agarang through fear they would capture him, or worse, kill him, which would make all the effort to keep him alive pointless.
"A dozen? And here you are, skulking around like a common thief." Grabbing the shoulder of his jacket, the Abbot began to drag Mythrd out from behind his neighbour's house and into the dusty street. "The Constable needs to hear about this. One Traal is bad enough. A pack? Patrons preserve us!"
Mythrd had no choice, now. If he had only managed to get to his house without the Abbot seeing him, he could have made up any old story to his parents, if they had caught him. Now, he had to recount the same tale to the Constable and hope that she didn't go to the henge, herself, to find not only Gythryn, but the old man and Agarang, the enemy.
-+-
The Abbot dragged Mythrd through the street, causing many pairs of eyes to turn their way. Yrstl was not a large village. Every one of those pairs of eyes belonged to people he knew, had known his entire life and now he could hear the whispers and murmurs follow him as he dragged his feet through the dust of the street.
Passing the well, he saw the shock on his mother's face as she pulled up the bucket by the thick rope. Abandoning the bucket, allowing it to fall, clattering, back down the well, she turned towards Mythrd and the Abbot as they strode past. He could see the confusion in her eyes. The concern and worry of what he had done to deserve the Abbot's ire.
"Mythrd? What is happening?" Her hand reached out to him, but the Abbot didn't give him any chance to explain.
"Not now, Drynthn. The boy has business with the Constable." Calling over her shoulder, Llwnthrn gave Mythrd's mother no chance to stop them. "Carry on with your day, girl. Patrons be with you."
Mythrd looked over his shoulder to see his mother slow and then stop, her hand rising to her mouth. He tried to speak, but a jerk of the Abbot's hand forced the words to catch in his throat. The last he saw of his mother, she had picked up her skirts and began running back to their home, water buckets abandoned as the other villagers stared after her.
The Constable's home sat at the very edge of the village. The last house before the beginning of the road north to the capital of Patron's Hold. Reaching the door, Abbot Llwnthrn hammered twice with the bottom of her fist, before barging into the house without a by-your-leave. Mythrd, due to Llwnthrn's other hand still gripping his jacket, had no option but to follow.
He had never set foot in the Constable's house before and didn't know what to expect. He had imagined it filled with weaponry, with manacles and chains hanging from pegs on the walls and a stark jail cell in the corner. It looked nothing like that at all. It was, in fact, a normal house. One that had flowers in vases and bright light falling through the many windows. It felt cozy and not at all like anything his young mind had imagined.
"Llwnthrn. At least you tried knocking this time." The Constable, a middle-aged woman of extra girth and stern manner, turned away from her cooking stove, ladle in hand. "And young Mythrd, too, but, I notice, he had little option in coming here."
"Hythrwn. Caustic as usual." With a flick of her arm, Abbot Llwnthrn spun Mythrd towards the Constable. "Tell her what you told me. And, no, not all of it. Just the parts about the Traal."
Constable Hythrwn frowned, dipping the ladle into a pot upon the stove. She took a sip of the contents, nodding to herself before adding a pinch of pepper. Mythrd couldn't believe the difference between the Constable he knew to the person stood before him. She looked so different.
With her hair falling free about her shoulders, reaching the middle of her back, and a normal, woollen, feminine dress, she looked like any other villager. So used to seeing the Constable wearing her hair fastened tight atop her head and in her heavy duty leather trousers and jacket, replete with long dagger of office at her belt, he hardly believed this was the same person.
"Yes, Mythrd, I'm not a Dragon-Kin in disguise, after all. I know all the rumours." The amused smile caught Mythrd by surprise. He had never seen the Constable smile. "If the Abbot says you have something to tell me, it must be important. Speak up and speak clear."
He hesitated, at first, feeling himself diminish under the eyes of the two scariest people in the village. Gythryn had a similar demeanour and, though she had given him cause to feel scared, in the past, she had nothing on these two women. He cleared his throat, tried to speak and cleared it again.
A swift crack of the Abbot's cane upon his shoulder caused him to find his voice and he began to recall everything he had told Abbot Llwnthrn. Again, he left out all mention of Agarang and Kaninzir, but told the Constable everything that he recalled about the Traal. All the while, the Constable stirred the pot on the stove, making the occasional nod as the Abbot continued to frown at him.
Once he had finished, the Constable lifted her apron from against her skirts and rubbed her hands upon it. She moved over to a table at the other side of the house, with several curling and flat sheets of paper upon it. Bending over, she smoothed one sheet flat and read it. After a second, the Constable waved a hand in the direction of Mythrd and the Abbot.
"One of you stir that for me." Without looking, the Constable pulled another sheet out from beneath all the others and examined that with the same intensity. "Traal."
The Abbot pushed Mythrd towards the cooking stove and waved an irritated finger towards it. It appeared the Abbot had volunteered him to stir the Constable's pot. He picked up ladle and began to stir in slow circles. The Abbot joined the Constable at the table, looking over Hythrwn's shoulder. She stood a good head taller than the Constable, but not nearly as wide.
"Pytrws village suffered a Traal attack. It left five dead and a dozen injured before they managed to push the Traal out." Using her cane, the Abbot tapped the tip on the pages before the Constable. "We have half their number and none that can fight. We need to call in help from the capital."
"Yes. However, I think that is the intent." Running a thoughtful finger beneath her nose, the Constable tapped her finger beside where the cane tip had landed. "We have reports that the Gaeradine have been pushing Traal from their hunting grounds, in the Esservold, westwards. But, we also have reports of Gaeradine troops massing on the border of the Indervold, to the north."
"Prelude to an attack, you think?" Without asking, Abbot Llwnthrn picked up one of the reports and began reading. "Patrons' blood. Why are they stirring now, after all these years?"
"I don't know." The Constable stood upright, then looked at Mythrd. She shook her head, striding across and grabbing the ladle from him. He had stopped stirring while he listened. "You'll scorch my damned pan! Fool of a boy."
Pushed aside, Mythrd felt as though he stood somewhere he shouldn't. He had heard things that he doubted he should have heard. Yet, years of doing as his elders had told him had caused him to feel the need for someone to dismiss him when they no longer needed him. Neither the Constable, nor the Abbot had given him leave.
"I can have a novice on a horse and away to the capital within the hour." Llwnthrn moved to stand beside the Constable and the pot on the stove. She leaned over and sniffed. "Needs salt. My nose never lies."
"Very well, but we have to start thinking of defences for the village. For now, no-one goes out at night without at least a staff and never alone. See to it the villagers are told." The Constable took a pinch of salt, sprinkling it into the pot and continuing to stir. "No-one is to enter the forest after nightfall, not even in groups."
"I could ride to the capital." Mythrd could feel both pairs of eyes turn towards him, looking as though they had forgotten he existed. "I mean, after I've gone back to the henge for Gythryn."
"You'll do no such thing." The Abbot's cane flashed outwards, striking against the back of his hand, leaving a red welt and a stinging sensation. "And why are you still here? I want that girl back at the Monastery before lunch and woe betide either of you if she's a second later than that! Now, be off. This talk isn't for you."
With several more whacks of the cane, swatting his backside and shoulders, Abbot Llwnthrn herded him to the door and pushed him outside. Stumbling, he looked back at the door and then around him. After what he had heard within the Constable's house, he doubted he should say anything to anyone, lest he start a panic. The village would know everything soon enough.
He turned and began to run back through the village, catching the eyes of everyone once again and causing the whispers and murmurs to erupt once more in his wake. He didn't care about the other villagers, however. For now, his first priority lay with reassuring his mother that the Abbot had not taken him to the Constable because of any wrongdoing.
Falling through the doorway, he found both his mother and father about to leave the house, no doubt on their way to confront the Abbot and the Constable about Mythrd's situation. Before he could say anything, his mother dragged him into her arms and gave him a tight, crushing embrace, before pulling away and slapping the top of his head.
"And what have you been up to, eh? You and that Patrons blasted girl, getting into trouble." With her fists on her hip, his mother glared at him. Mythrd flinched, expecting another slap. "Well? Explain yourself! Embarrassing me and your father like that. You had me worried sick!"
"I was just passing on information about something. Something important. I'm not in trouble. I promise! But, you should hear what the Abbot has to say, she'll tell everyone about it soon." Holding up his hands, he could see his mother narrow her eyes, but she seemed to believe him. "Right now, though, I have to go find Gythryn. I'm sorry. I have to rush. I'll be back soon."
At a run, he grabbed a loaf of bread and a bunch of apples, dropping them into a sack from a pile beside the shelving. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw his parents talking amongst themselves, pointing his way. While their attentions were elsewhere, he found the house supply of dressings and bandages, used often due to Mythrd's father's job.
He ran from the house, out the back door. If he had any chance of getting Gythryn back to the village before lunch, he would have to run. Persuading her to come back could take some time.