Fifthwind (8 page)

Everyone
moved about efficiently, completing the necessary chores as they did
everyday. It was a never-ending cycle of prosperity and torment for
these people. They lived a life of extremes, perpetually swinging
between calm and chaos, never quite finding a balance.

As
the two men walked farther north, the town began to change. Inns,
taverns, workshops -and
the occasional brothel, gave way to the tiny shops of bakers,
tailors, shoemakers, and more. Here, the activity was different, but
no less intense, as the shopkeepers scrambled to move exhibits of
their wares to the front of their stores. Canopied carts, designed to
display goods, flanked the doorways of every storefront. The hope of
a large sale or a good buy flowed like gold through the veins of the
merchants. Their very existence depended on their ability to impress
a stingy buyer.

Temporary
lean-tents lined the road at every open lot, and the rainbow of
multicolored, fabric roofs reminded Ben of the nomadic carnivals that
would sometimes visit the western port cities and he wondered if
perhaps they originated from a place like this. The eager band of
vendors bought, sold, or traded everything imaginable and some items
that were beyond even the strangest of imaginations.

They
passed one hastily constructed booth that boasted an unusual
collection of vials containing, according to the droopy-eyed peddler,
the juice of a magical something-or-other fruit that would guarantee
both health and wealth to the drinker. Ben couldn't help but think
that if the pale-skinned merchant had but sampled his own potions, he
would perhaps have a more alluring color and not be operating his
business out of a rented stall.

Although
it was not far, it took awhile for them to reach the edge of town.
The crowds were thick and the fact that Mason had stopped to look at
several of the displays had slowed them considerably. Mason owned
little, but was always on the lookout for a new bauble, something to
add weight to his pocket. Small, manageable possessions were
important to men who had spent most of their lives without a proper
home.

The
busy road eventually gave way to grassy hummocks that climbed slowly
toward the more formidable foothills, above which loomed the cold,
dark peaks of the Kreggorian range. Beyond those peaks sprawled the
vast Empire of Tania, the mountains providing an ample barrier
between the two lands. Ben concluded that even if the Empire had set
its sights on renewing the war, it almost certainly would not happen
here; there were easier targets along the border that would not
require a dangerous march over rough terrain. Mason was right, the
Tanians were not behind the recent killings... but somehow, that
simple realization did not make Ben feel any better.

Tiny
farmhouses littered the hillside, each with small gardens of seasonal
vegetables lining the paths that lead to friendly doors. Some of the
homes were disheveled, abandoned long ago and falling apart from
years of rot and neglect, but most were in good repair and carried a
lively charm. The community seemed happy and healthy. Children ran
about in the afternoon sun and made a game of trying to catch goats
and chickens that ran loose in the grassy fields.

They
passed by another group of youngsters quietly sitting under the shady
arms of a huge, ancestral oak, captivated by the theatrical telling
of a classic tale. Three traveling Wordsmiths utilized puppets to
bring to life the long-beloved story of a brave King and his trusty
stallion. The story had been Ben's favorite as a child, and he
resisted an overwhelming urge to stop and listen. Unfortunately,
there was no time to waste with nostalgic entertainment.

Before
long, they had left behind the town entirely and walked on a path
just scarcely recognizable as a line in the trampled grass. Dark
clouds bunched up menacingly behind the barrier peaks and it was only
a matter of time before they breached that wall and tumbled into the
valley, bringing rain.

They
had spent more time than they had intended browsing through the
market, and only now noticed that it was late in the day. Though
still a few hours from dusk, the sun had dropped behind the peaks and
instantly brought the valley into a late afternoon gloom somewhere
between daylight and shadow. Ben instinctively scanned the darkening
trees on either side of the field. He could not shake from his mind
the things that Vincent had told him. Kyla's father might indeed have
been crazy but his words echoed in his ears.

‘
The
roads are not safe at night
'.

His
own experience the night before, in a similar meadow, also replayed
in his mind. The swirling image of the shadowy apparition would not
let go of his thoughts, and he fought off a shiver that danced on his
spine. There was still plenty of time before nightfall, but he
increased his pace nevertheless.

"We'd
better hurry," Mason said, apparently reading Ben's thoughts.
"It'll be dark sooner than I thought, and those clouds don't look
too friendly."

They
hurried their way to the top of the next hill, to a crumbling tower
flying a yellow banner. The structure looked bleak and uninhabitable,
not the inviting image one would expect of a temple.

Mason
said what was on both of their minds, "It's all falling apart.
Who'd want to come and pray here?"

Once
they got nearer, recent repairs were evident in the clean mortar of
the wall joints, and it appeared that someone had begun the process
of clearing weeds on one side of the tower's courtyard; the overgrown
brambles had been fought back and replaced with leafy shrubbery, and
fruit trees. If the rest of the untamed verge received equal
attention, the enclosed garden would someday be a pleasant retreat.

The
tower itself was in ruin, but the base structure and surrounding
buildings would make for a sizable compound that even included a
small stable. In time, and with work, it would make for a fine
temple.

"William
must have just started the renovations," said Ben, "but that
tower still looks unsafe."

Mason
pointed down the other side of the hill at a dense patch of trees.
"Kyla said the Captain's place should be somewhere near that
thicket."

Ben
spotted a thin column of smoke rising from the edge of the grove, and
on closer inspection, saw a rooftop with an active chimney just
narrowly visible as it jutted out from the trees. There did not seem
to be a direct path leading to the cottage, other than one that ran
through a small, gated cemetery, in the center of which worked a
caretaker.

Only
the man's head was visible as he stood shoulder deep in the grave he
was digging. By the looks of him, and by two other completed holes,
he had been busy at the task all day. Nearby, on a flat-cart were the
unfortunate owners of the new quarters, partially covered by canvas
except for their lifeless feet. There were three pairs of them so the
caretaker's digging was near complete.

"It's
sad work, breaking your back in such hard ground." Mason said, as
they approached the caretaker.

The
man flinched, "Oh! Blood and dust, don't scare me like that!" The
man placed a hand over his chest and swallowed hard. He tossed his
shovel out of the hole and then pulled himself up and dusted himself
off. "Only three today, so I gave my assistant the day off."

Ben
looked back at the cart and the three bodies. "You usually bury
more in a day?"

"Not
everyday, but there have been over twenty this week so far. Some days
are worse than others." He pointed to the next row in the cemetery
where several freshly covered plots were lined.

Ben
and Mason exchanged glances. They had not expected the problem to be
so severe. Ben shook his head, "Those responsible will pay soon
enough."

The
caretaker cackled an unimpressed laugh. "Who's going to make them?
Last I checked, demons pretty much do what they like. Unquestioned
and unpunished."

Mason
moved over to the cart and tossed back the canvas covering. There lay
three men all bearing the familiar savage wounds that they had seen
on Gordo's man. Cuts of clean steel and toothy bite marks. "It's
the same as before, Ben."

"These...
demons," Ben asked. "They've killed twenty men this week?"

"More
than that. But only twenty that were complete enough to justify a
burial. The rest are scattered across the fields outside of town or
farther out on the roads where they met their fates. There usually
isn't much left afterwards. What pieces we can find we give to the
pyre."

Mason
bowed his head and muttered, "Helm, gloves and boots."

It
was a long held tradition, that only an intact body was laid to rest
in burial. No man should ever be sent into the next life with parts
missing. A dead man must still have his head, hands and feet to be
put into the ground, hence the saying '
Helm, gloves and boots
'.
Otherwise, the remains were always respectfully given over to the
flame so that a new body might be received on the next turn of the
wheel.

It
was getting late, and there were many questions Ben would like to
have asked the caretaker, but he was sure that Tad would have the
answers he sought. "Does that cottage down there in the trees
belong to Tad Haddaway?"

The
caretaker pulled the first of the three bodies off of the cart by the
ankles, the body striking the ground with a grunt. "That's right.
You going to pay him a visit?"

"We've
got business with him. Sorry for interrupting your work." Ben
grabbed Mason by the arm and tugged him away from the scene. Once
they were out of earshot, he said, "Tad had better have some
answers."

Without
a prescribed path, it took a while for them to get down the hill, and
across the meadow to the grove that concealed the lonely cottage. The
sky was starting to drizzle when they finally arrived.

The
house was small, but the pitched roof boasted two chimneys, one of
which was in use. A patch of unruly vegetable vines grew in the
front, and a tangle of ivy had completely overtaken the entire west
wall of the house. If not for the active chimney, they would have
thought the home was deserted. Even the windows had been boarded up.

Mason
frowned at the run-down residence and said, "Maybe he's been too
busy to do any work on the place."

Ben
looked again at the smoke billowing from the chimney. "Well, I
suppose we should go say hello."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mason
marched up to the door, and banged on it twice with his fist. He
paused to give Ben a devilish smile then bellowed, "Captain, the
enemy is closing in! Lieutenant Karr has wet himself and all the men
have run away."

Ben
laughed aloud. He had always enjoyed the special relationship that
exists between a Sergeant and his Captain. Tad and Mason had served
together from the beginning of the war, fighting side by side for
years in places far removed from the comforts of home. Others had
come and gone, but Mason and Tad remained as a permanent testimony of
steadfast commitment. No battle was too big and no assignment was too
small. The two men were utterly loyal to one another and it had
pained them both to separate after the war.

They
heard a quick scuffling sound from within, followed by silence. Ben
put his ear to the door, and spoke in a friendly tone. "Excuse me,
we're looking for a Mr. Tad Haddaway."

He
knocked on the door again. "Hello?"

Mason
frowned. "I know I heard someone inside."

The
door creaked open and someone peered through the crack. Only an eye
attached to half a face could be seen through the small opening.
"Mason, is that you?"

"Yes
Sir!"

The
door opened wider, but slowly, cautiously. The man behind the door
put a hesitant foot forward. He was thin but tall, with a chiseled,
angular face. He had shoulder-length black hair streaked with gray. A
handsome man of wiry strength and a courtly manner stood before them.
He moved his eyes back and forth between Mason and Ben in disbelief.

Finally,
his voice found words, "It is you... both of you!"

Ben
said, "It's good to see you Tad. I'm sorry we're late, but it took
a while for me to track down Mason once I received your message."

"But
that was almost a year ago," Tad said, "I thought you weren't
coming."

"Of
course we were coming," Mason beamed. "We'd never let you down."

Tad
stared in wonder at the two men standing before him then realized
they were still at the door. "Please, excuse my manners, come
inside."

The
interior of the cottage was modest. Scantily furnished and
desperately lacking any sign of homelike comforts. It was essentially
one large room with alcoves that set apart the different areas of the
home. The one working fireplace lit the room well enough to see
throughout the space; the other had been boarded-up from the inside.
The minimalistic arrangement showed that the owner had spent too many
years sleeping under the stars; it had all the charm of a field tent.

There
was a simple table near the fire and a single chair. Tad motioned for
them to sit, dragging a nearby footlocker across the floor to provide
a second seat. He poured them both a cup of tea from a kettle hanging
above the fire. He rummaged through a pile of pots on the floor and
found a small cup, which he blew the dust out of and rubbed clean on
the front of his shirt before pouring himself a drink.

"Don't
worry, I've something a little stronger for our next round," he
said, rolling a small keg closer to the table and taking a seat atop
it. "I can't believe you're actually here."

"It's
good to see you Captain," said Mason.

Tad
gripped Mason's arm affectionately. "I'm not your Captain anymore
Mason. We're just two men who happen to share a good bit of history.
Call me Tad."