Bound to Survive (The Magic Within Book 1) (2 page)

Not far from the village of Corn Fallow, Henry sat alone in the ramshackle hut he’d repaired and now called home. His threadbare clothes clung to his skin as a veil of moisture hung in the air. He pulled at his clothes in the hope of finding relief. As he scratched at his beard the sweat irritated his skin and although the heat was unbearable, he still needed to eat. Within the stifling hut Henry moved over to the fire to stir the bubbling liquid the iron pot held. As he swirled the stew around the carcass floated to the surface and Henry poked at the bones to remove some of the meat.

The last rays of light had begun to fade as the sun slipped beyond the horizon. ‘Ahh,’ he sighed. The aroma made his mouth water and his stomach gurgle and groan. Thomas had dropped by earlier with a rabbit he’d caught. Normally Henry’s meals came from the garden out back or food he foraged for in the countryside. He remembered when he’d first met Thomas and Mary some twenty years ago as he’d travelled the roads. He’d looked for a safe, out of the way place to seek refuge and had decided to head towards Corn Fallow. Thomas’ wife Mary had been heavy with child. They’d little money and nowhere to live after they’d fled their home and had decided to make camp in the thicket not far from the road. Thomas had worried when Mary had first felt the pains of labour. The maids, who would’ve helped Mary birth the child, had been slain in their beds and now the couple were alone.

Thomas had searched for wood to keep the fire lit through the night and his arms had been laden with branches as he’d strode back to their camp. Thomas’ flaxen mane wafted in the cool evening air. He’d been walking back to the road where he’d seen some heavy logs that would keep the fire burning well into the night when Henry had appeared on an old nag. Thomas had greeted him and Henry had waved in return and continued on his way. Thomas’ heart had sunk as Henry passed him.

‘Your horse looks tired. Would you like to stop and rest by our fire?’

Henry certainly was tired. The sun sat low in the sky and he’d wanted to find some shelter for the night, light his own fire and prepare something to eat.

‘Thank you but I can’t stop. I’ve many miles to go before nightfall.’

Fear had pricked at Thomas.
What if something went wrong?
‘Please sir, my wife is with child and her time is here.’

At that moment Mary had called out. ‘Thomas! Are you near?’ He’d heard the fear in her voice and so had Henry. Henry’s heart twinged and his conscience had ridden up to rest on his shoulder. He knew he could help, but should he? Although he didn’t know them, he knew the dangers of childbirth. Henry had spent much of his life easing a child from its mother’s womb. There were also the times when his fear for the child and mother where overwhelming and the use of his gift could not staunch the flow of blood that brought death.

‘Thomas! I need you,’ Mary had called again.

Henry had turned his horse around and dismounted.

‘I can help you. I’ve delivered many children into the world before. Don’t worry, my friend,’ he’d said to ease the man’s worry.

Relief filled Thomas and he’d grasped Henry’s hand and shaken it. Thomas dragged the logs back to the camp and Henry had followed.

‘Mary, this is Henry,’ he’d said as they’d climbed up into the wagon. ‘He knows all about babies, thank heavens,’ he’d whispered. Mary had lain on a bed of soft furs. Thomas had been a trapper and he knew his trade well. The meat he’d sold to the local butcher and the pelts he’d trade in the markets. Life had been prosperous until they’d had to flee. Mary had smiled at her husband as he’d wiped the sweat from her brow. Her hair had clung in strands and her skin was glistening with sweat as her labour progressed. Mary had panted as another pain began.

‘Hello, Mary. I’ve done this many times before,’ Henry said as he’d moved to her side and touched her forehead, checking for fever. ‘You’ll be fine. When did your labour start?’

‘Thank you, Henry, thank you,’ Mary said as the pain had begun to ease. ‘The labour began early this morning.’

Henry had examined her. ‘The child will be here soon. I need to prepare. Thomas, put some water to heat on the fire.’

Thomas had untied the cast iron pot from the wagon and he’d hung it on the makeshift stand over the fire. After he’d filled it with water he went to gather more wood. He’d returned as the sun sank behind the hills. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees and a hush had settled over the land. Henry had relieved his horse of the leather satchel it carried which contained odds and ends; things that Henry always carried with him. Henry then had returned to Mary’s side and he’d torn a piece of linen into squares and had placed them in a pot of cold water. He’d squeezed out the water and placed them on Mary’s forehead to ease the heat and clear away the sweat.

‘Try and slow your breathing, Mary,’ he’d said. ‘You need to save your energy to push the baby out.’

Time had moved swiftly and before long the baby had begun it’s decent. Henry and Thomas had helped Mary deliver the child into the world, a beautiful baby girl. She’d been perfect. A mop of ebony hair crowned her head and she’d the tiniest hands and feet Thomas had ever seen.

Mary and Thomas had called her Leonie Bartholemew.

Memories always made Henry sad. Thoughtfully he stirred the stew again and as his stomach rumbled he decided it was time to eat. He heaped the steaming food into the bowl until it nearly overflowed. Over at the rickety table in the corner he eased himself onto an old tree stump and cut some stale bread.
Good old Thomas,
he thought. Thomas lived not far away and always popped in here or there to drop off this or share that and Henry always tended Thomas and his family when they were sick or when he and Mary added another member to their household.

The stew was good and he licked his lips as the gravy ran down his chin. Henry lifted an eyebrow as he heard a noise under the bed. It wasn’t the first time. ‘Alright,’ Henry said annoyed and he waggled his spoon in the direction of the noise. ‘I’ll go soon.’ Tomorrow would be soon enough or maybe the next day. He knew he couldn’t put it off much longer; he had to return the box to the boy.

Boy. No, he was a full-grown man now at the age of twenty-four. Yes tomorrow he’d set out and travel to The Dale to return to his grandson, Christopher.

Sweat poured down his arms as he stoked the glowing coals of the forge. To keep the heat to a maximum was essential. Heat billowed around him; it dried the sweat and tingled his skin. When the forge was hot enough he plunged the steel into the fire and allowed it to become a glowing yellow haze and sparks blazed upward towards the flue that towered overhead. He removed the red-hot steel and lay it across the anvil and with the heavy metal hammer he pounded and drew the steel into shape. Sweat again glistened on his skin as he shaped the metal and flattened it into whatever he desired. He worked on another axe for the woodcutters. Christopher was in the workshop not far from the house and had nearly finished the last of the heads for the axes. As he glanced over to the far corner of the workshop he noticed the pile of steel that waited and he snarled at the work for tomorrow. Christopher hated to make weapons for the invaders, especially Kovak Turr.

Kovak was Captain of the guards and he’d been placed in command in The Dale for the last ten years. Kovak Turr was rude and arrogant and he always found a way to wheedle himself under Christopher’s skin and provoke his ire every time they met. When it suited Kovak, he failed to uphold the law as governed by the Lord and would turn a blind eye to line his pockets with more coin. There was no justice for the people who lived in The Dale. The soldiers took more than they needed and the people of the village would often go hungry. When crops were harvested, the soldiers under Kovak’s command confiscated them and there’d barely be enough food for the villagers to last until next season, let alone enough seed to plant for the next year’s crops. Edgar Poe had been hauled off after an altercation with the soldiers. They’d accused him of hiding the precious grain and he hadn’t been seen again until he was found hung on a pike in front of the village church with a sign around his neck. On the sign the word ‘thief’ had been written.

Christopher was hungry, his stomach rumbled and lunch seemed like it was a month ago. At twenty-four Christopher towered over his aunt and uncle. He was tall and had the physique to match. Christopher’s strength came from the hard work he’d done all his life. His hair was as black as the night and worn a little too long. Rose always complained that he’d catch it alight in the forges. With warm brown eyes and a strong jaw line he caught the eye of many young ladies in the village. His uncle had always been a swordsmith and made all the tools and weapons the people of The Dale needed.

Now he hated to make the weapons, just as Christopher did.

Rose walked down the path to the workshop. ‘Christopher, are you finished? Supper is ready.’

‘Nearly, Aunt Rose,’ he said. ‘I’ll be along soon.’

‘Well don’t be too long or your supper will be cold.’ She smiled as she walked back to the house. Christopher had come to them when they were in need. They weren’t able to have any children of their own and Rose had become withdrawn and melancholy. Albert had been at the end of his tether and had sent her to stay with her sister, but she’d returned just as sad as she’d left. That was until Henry and Christopher had arrived at their doorstep.

Henry knew he could depend on them to look after the child. He was desperate to hide Christopher and thought Albert and Rose Claremont would take him in. Henry knew how much Rose longed for a child of her own. Rose and Albert would dote on the boy and shower him with the love and affection he needed. Albert could teach him his trade and could be counted on to keep the boy safe until he returned. He’d make sure Christopher learnt to read and write but also learn the art of healing and how to wield a sword and fight with any weapon. Rose took to Christopher right away and as Henry had thought, showered him with all the love she had in her heart. She had so much patience for Christopher, who’d been whisked away from his family and the only home he’d ever known. It took a while for Christopher to settle into his new life with Albert and Rose. Rose would often hear him sob himself to sleep at night and it broke her heart.

Christopher settled the forges and locked up the workshop before he strolled up the path to the back door of the house. There was a barrel of water near the porch with soap and a cloth to scrub away the day’s grime. As he washed the sweat and soot from his face and hands he smiled. Rose spoiled him, and Albert and always made sure they had what they needed at their fingertips. He climbed the steps onto the back porch and entered the kitchen.

Albert sat in an old rocking chair by the fire. Christopher looked at him and noticed how much he’d aged since his friend Edgar had been found in front of the old church. Christopher knew that life was hard for his uncle and every day it seemed to draw the very essence from him. Albert was shorter than Christopher and although he’d thickened around the waist, he was still muscular. He had a full head of hair and though it wasn’t black like Christopher’s it was still quite dark. At the age of sixty-five he was a healthy specimen of a man.

‘Evening, Uncle,’ Christopher said as he went over and gave Rose a kiss on the cheek.

‘Argh! Christopher I didn’t think you’d ever finish, lad,’ Albert said and smiled. He knew how Christopher was when he worked on things that pleased him. He was the same himself. He sighed and said, ‘Tomorrow we must begin work on the swords for Kovak.’

Christopher grunted he knew it would be a long day for him and his uncle.

‘Come on you two, up to the table or dinner will be cold,’ Rose said as she set the food down. They seated themselves and talked about their day.

‘What happened, Uncle, when you went into the village earlier?’

‘Not much. I met with Ben and some of the others,’ he said.

‘What did you meet about?’ He’d heard a lot of talk from his friends how the men of the village met regularly.

‘Not much, son. We made plans for the season and organised to finish the doors on Jimmy’s barn.’ Jimmy Cracken was a local farmer who planted corn and wheat each year for the village and the excess he’d trade when he travelled to Hedgerow.

‘So when do you plan to finish the doors on the barn?’ Christopher had to work for any information from his uncle.

‘Oh, on Sunday when we’re free,’ Albert said, as if it were no big deal.

Christopher didn’t understand the need for the barn as there were never enough crops to store. As soon as the crops were harvested the soldiers confiscated the majority of the yield but he kept his thoughts to himself and directed his conversation to his aunt.

‘Aunt Rose, you’ve outdone yourself again,’ he said as he ate his dinner. Although they ate meagre fare they were lucky they’d enough coin to buy the small comforts such as butter, sugar and meat from time to time. It wasn’t the money, but the lack of goods to buy. Unless you could go out and hunt, meat was usually scarce as the soldiers bought the majority that was for sale. Tonight Rose had made venison stew because their friend Old Ben had been out and had landed himself a deer. He’d skinned and butchered the deer before he’d taken it home and shared his bounty with his friends.

Many years ago Ben had witnessed the destruction the invaders had inflicted. Back then it’d been a pristine and productive landscape, but now the land was littered with broken stumps where the soldiers had hacked trees down and used them for their fires. The damage the caravans of soldiers had left behind was immense. As the hordes had passed through the countryside they’d left the tell tale signs of gluttony. Broken wagons in need of minor repair had been left to rot. Campfires strewn with partially burnt wood scattered the landscape after the army had left and the caravan continued on.

The smell of urine and faeces had been pungent after a rainstorm and the corpses the army couldn’t be bothered with had been left to decay. Not only did they leave the area in disarray, but they also took what they wanted. Farmers were made to harvest their fields, even before the crops were ready. Any conflict was considered treason to the army and draconian punishment was meted out to send a clear message for all to comply. So as Arnak moved across the country his reputation preceded him and the people had fallen into line with his plans. The soldiers had been proud to boast how their Lord was good and how they’d live in peace and tranquillity under his reign. When the army moved on, the people left behind had found the strength to bury loved ones, neighbours and friends.

Although the monstrous army had moved on many years ago, the soldiers that had settled in The Dale still took more than they needed and Ben was forced to travel further and further afield to find quarry. Without the trees and thickets, the animals moved to find safety, food and shelter.

Rose cleared away the dishes. ‘Christopher, are you staying in tonight?’

‘No, Aunt Rose. I’m off into the village to see Peter.’

‘Well don’t be too late. We’ve an early start in the morning,’ Albert reminded him.

‘I won’t be late,’ Christopher said.

Christopher helped Rose scrape the plates clean. ‘That’s enough, off you go or you’ll never be home,’ Rose said as she shooed him out the kitchen.

He kissed her goodbye and as he walked to the back door he grabbed his woollen cloak off the peg where he’d hung it the night before.

‘I’ll not be late, uncle,’ he said and smiled. Then he swung his cloak over his shoulder and left the house.

‘Albert, how can you let him go out?’ Rose always worried about Christopher, ever since he’d come to live with them. She worried someone might find out who he was.

Albert walked over to Rose and placed his arms around her and held her tight while he whispered in her ear. ‘Rose we discussed this and you knew this time would come. We need to trust him. He needs to make his own path in this world and who are we to stop him?’

Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s just too soon. I’m not ready yet.’ A tear slipped down her cheek and Albert held her close and pressed his lips against her hair.

‘He’ll be fine, Rose, you just wait and see.’

The night air was cool but not yet cold enough to wear a cloak, and Christopher walked down the path to check on the workshop. Satisfied all was well, he continued to the road that led to the village.

Just over half an hour later he rapped on Peter’s front door. Joseph answered. ‘Hello, Christopher,’ he said. ‘Peter’s out back but he’ll be in soon. Come in and wait by the fire.’

Christopher shook hands with Joseph. ‘Good evening, Mr. Gala.’ Then he took a seat near the fire and talked with the older man. It wasn’t long before Peter came in with the last of the wood.

‘All right, Pa,’ Peter said. ‘We’ll be off now or we’ll be late.’ He nodded to Christopher and they said their goodbyes and left the house.

Peter and Christopher were on their way to the quarry. James Gala, Saul and Adam Winters, Carl Poe, and his cousins Rick and Jack Osmol had gathered in the quarry with others and they waited for the last two in their group to arrive.

As they walked along the road to the quarry they saw a faint glow ahead. ‘Come on, Christopher,’ Peter said in annoyance and quickened his pace. ‘Before you know it we’ll have a scout see that fire and then we’ll be in for it.’

As they neared the open cut site they noticed a man by the fire. He drank from a jug and then passed it along. Christopher and Peter moved into the underbrush by the side of the road and observed several men around the small fire. It wasn’t long before they recognised some of the men as their friends and as they entered the quarry Carl Poe stepped forward.

‘Christopher, some of the lads have brought their friends with them. They’re good men and I’m sure we could do with a few more heads.’

‘That’s fine, Carl, but they shouldn’t be drinking.’ That’s all they needed, a few hot heads full of liquor and anything could happen. ‘It’s important they take these meetings seriously. It’s dangerous and it could mean all our lives if we’re discovered.’

As Peter began to kick dirt on the fire a few of the men protested.

‘Lads, it’s important we take care not to draw attention to ourselves. A fire is like a beacon and the smoke can be smelt for miles. A scout could spot us and what good would it do if they were to swoop in and slaughter us all. It’s not like we can say we’re organising a dance or have plans to repair the village church,’ Christopher said.

Some of them mumbled their apologies and they all moved further into the quarry to stay out of sight.

‘Friends, we need to think if we’re to rid our village of the soldiers. There are a good number of them, but they grow lazy and are no longer the force they once were when they first took our village. They only impose their vengeance and enforce the law now when not too many people are there to stand up to them.

‘I think this could be an advantage to us. Although we can do nothing at the moment, we need to think of a way to be rid of them. These are the questions we need answers for. Men of The Dale, we need to put our heads together and form a plan.’

The echoes were unanimous and everyone talked at once.

‘Does anyone have any idea why our fathers meet? It seems strange when it’s only begun over the past few seasons.’

Never before had anyone organised to meet before harvest; word would normally spread and those with the time would turn up to help. The village would gather on a regular basis and everyone pitched in. From houses, barns and sheds to birthdays, christenings and weddings, the village pulled together and helped each other.