Hunt
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 and 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, 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 and bit the inside of his lip until desire passed.
“You’re young, yet,” retorted Holder. And then: “Hsst! Softly, now. Bear’s spoor ends here with the wheat. That’s Farrow’s smokehouse up ahead.”
They’d come farther, faster, than Liam had realized. Bear’s trail – or the sidhe‘s – had indeed run straight as compass point through the crop. Golden stalks fell away to puny brown stems and then cleared 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, and 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 his supper here and filled his belly while he tracked 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 it. The birds were heavy, but it took strength to snap bone and tear flesh as the barrowman had done.
Liam looked away from the turkeys and through the trees at the cottage. It was a pretty plot, carefully tended, with flowers in clay pots near a regimented vegetable garden. Hens scratched in the dirt 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 falling through the open door onto rough floorboards, 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 form 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. In the practice yard he might stop, and take a drink, and rest his sword hand. During battle on Roue he’d been gripped with excitement and immediate fear, focused on staying alive, and not at all concerned with aches and pains of his body, at least not until after Khorit Dard was routed and the war over.
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 and shook 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.”
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