Not Magic Enough and Setting Boundaries Boxed Set (The Coming Storm) (2 page)

“Help,” he whispered as he staggered into the relative warmth of the great room.

The fire in the fireplace that dominated the whole of one wall was banked to coals but it still heated the room beyond the chill of the weather outside.

He was clearly injured, with blood covering one side of his face.

“My family,” he croaked, weakly, “the wagon, it overturned. We were on our way home from the birthing…”

“Hush, hush,” Delae said, gently, reassuringly, as she took his weight on her shoulders and guided him to the padded bench by the fire. “What’s your name?”

“Marlan. Lady, you have to help them…!”

“Of course I do,” she said, kindly, although it was no more than her duty as landowner, but also because people needed aid. “We’ll help them, I promised. What happened, Marlan? Where are they?”

“We were coming from Raven’s Nest, heading south for the Heartlands. My sister Jessa had her baby, we were coming home,” Marlan said. His next words were bitter and angry. “Pa thought we could make it to Riverford before the storm hit. I kept telling him no, we should stop at the last village but you can’t tell him anything. So we pressed on.”

As he spoke, Petra and Hallis rushed in. With a shake of her head, Delae indicated they shouldn’t speak.

There was no need, at the young man’s words both turned to rush back down the hall to do what was needed, Petra to get the kitchens going and Hallis to gather up blankets.

“I told him we needed to stop, hunker down to wait out the storm but he wouldn’t,” Marlan said. From the way he spoke, it had the sound of an old complaint, much voiced and now tragically vindicated. “The wagon overturned.”

“Where?” Delae asked. “On the road?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, respectfully, as Hallis returned to drape a blanket over his shoulders.

“Petra is making soup, my lady, there will be food soon,” Hallis said, his heart aching for his poor mistress as he bent stiffly to stir up the fire, wrestling another log into place. Tall and spare - his gray hair sparse - Hallis’s hands were knotted with age, bent and twisted.

Hallis looked at his mistress kneeling by the young man. She was such a pretty young woman with a kind, gentle face and a good heart, as graceful as the dancer she’d been in her youth. Tightly curled hair glowed red and gold in the light of the coals, her dark blue eyes were focused only on the young man.

In truth, most landowners would already have put him and Petra to work as drudges in the kitchens or as lesser house staff by now and there were a good many that would’ve put them out to beg on the streets. Neither of them could move fast any more.

Not Delae though. For kindness mostly but also for good reason as there simply was no money to hire better - her good for nothing husband took every penny she couldn’t hide. Still, she never ordered, instead always asked and never complained of her lot in life. It wasn’t in her to do it.

A sharp petulant voice came from the door to the west wing of the house startling everyone.

“What’s going on, what’s all that racket? Can’t a body get some sleep of a night? Bad enough with this storm but then folk banging around…”

Closing her eyes, Delae willed patience as she had a thousand times before.

“It’s nothing, Cana. Travelers have broken down in the storm,” she said to her husband’s mother. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Then you must send aid,” the woman said, sharply - as if Delae were witless.

“This I know,” Delae said. “And I will. Go back to bed, Cana, I’ll take care of it.”

Despair and frustration weighed on her, battered at her soul. It was at rare times such as this that Delae wished she had a husband in truth, instead of only in name. This would’ve been his duty had he been there, although she would have gone with him to brave the storm and give aid. Instead it fell to her. All of it.

She took a breath - willed strength and patience. These folk needed her. There was no one else and there was something - some satisfaction - to be found in the knowledge that she could help.

“Hmmmph,” Cana said and slammed the door shut behind her.

At least Kolan, her husband’s father, hadn’t come, too, Delae thought, which was one blessing - his joints bothered him too much on these days.

Letting out the breath she’d taken, with a wince at the door slam, Delae turned to Hallis.

“Go fetch Dan, Morlis and Tad for me would you please, Hallis? Tell Morlis we’ll need our hay cart, two of the draft horses and Besra. Then you and Petra get the rooms in the east wing ready.”

Those rooms were usually reserved for rare visitors to the homestead - or for travelers such as these caught out in the storm. In this isolated part of the Kingdoms the smallholders used them most when they came in during the harsh days of winter, now fast upon them.

 “Yes, Delae,” Hallis said and hurried off as best he could with his stiff joints and aching bones, as Petra came down the hall toward him.

Their fingers - his and Petra’s - touched for just a moment with love and understanding and then Hallis hobbled down through the west wing of the quarters toward those of the south wing. It would take longer but he was too old to fight the winds of the storm by cutting across the square.

Petra came to sit by the boy, a mug of hot herbal tea laced with wine in one gnarled hand. She gave a nod to Delae.

“Help will be on its way shortly,” Delae said, laying a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder.

As she hurried away to her rooms, she knew she wouldn’t tell him it would be she who would go. She, her smith, her wrangler and the addled but strong young man who assisted Petra in the kitchen.

That was all there were here save for the women and children of the homestead. All the smallholders were sheltering from the storm in the safety of their cottages and too far away to aid her.

It would have to be enough - it would have to do. Somehow.

Casting aside the threadbare robe and the thin linen nightdress she wore, Delae quickly drew on her working clothes - simple but heavy men’s winter trews, her heaviest tunic, layering over it a sweater Petra had knitted for her and thick woolen socks before she stamped her feet into her working boots. She threw her sturdiest cloak over all of it. A woolen scarf covered her abundant hair. She wrapped the scarf around her throat - despite the itch of the wool - before gathering up her sheepskin gloves.

She stopped to gather a jug of fortified wine from the storeroom, pausing in the kitchen to fetch a piece of warmed iron from the fire, and letting it drop it into the jug of wine with a hiss, before she pounded the cork stopper back in place.

By the time she reached the great room, the men were waiting.

Dan was huge and burly - heavily muscled in the chest, arms and shoulders from his hours at the forge and capable enough there. Tall and gangly, Morlis was a wonder with horses and a godsend to her. Poor Tad just looked at her vacantly, his huge hands dangling, his moon face waiting to be wreathed in a smile…or a look of confusion. But he was strong and he would do as he was told. For all that he was short-changed on wits, he more than made up for it in other ways.

She patted his cheek lightly, fondly - the smile broke out, big and broad, heartening her.

“I’ve the horses and wagon waiting outside,” Morlis said.

She nodded. “Tad, will you take the spare blankets and the jug to the cart please? We’re going for a ride. Dan, go open the hayloft, quickly please. If their wagon has overturned - they’ll be cold, possibly injured. We’ll need hay in the cart for warmth.”

Obediently, Tad gathered up the things and trotted out to the cart as Dan ran to the stables - Morlis on his heels to drive the little wagon there.

With a glance back at the warm building that had been her home for the last ten years or so, Delae went out into the storm.

It was an early winter storm and all the more fierce because of it - driven by the warm winds from the south and the cold winds sweeping down out of the mountains to the east and north. It was bitterly cold and damp, hurling snow before it that wouldn’t stick but would turn the roads muddy, slushy and thick.

A rumble of thunder growled above the other sounds of the storm. Thunder snow… uncommon but less so at this time of year. If this were any sign, it would be a long and hard winter.

Faithful Besra - her horse - tried to turn her back to the wind, her winter coat thick, yet still she shivered as Delae mounted.

Delae could sympathize as she turned the horse’s head toward where Dan forked hay into the cart. The cold seemed to find every gap in the layers that covered her.

“Enough, let’s go,” she shouted and he nodded, pulling the upper doors closed behind him, emerging seconds later at the door below with torches he’d lit at his forge.

He handed one up to her before mounting his own horse.

The gates were unbarred as they almost always were - save for the rare goblin raids this far to the south and west, they didn’t need to be. Far from the borderlands and in a Kingdom where the King kept faith with his subjects by keeping the roads safe for those who lived within his borders, they had little to fear.

Except the storm.

The wind struck with vicious force the moment they left the security of the walls, rattling the little wagon and nearly blowing Delae from her horse.

Still there was no help for it, as landowner here it was her responsibility to render aid - regardless of circumstances.

Putting her head down, Delae drew her cloak more tightly around her throat.

In the wind of the storm, the torches and lanterns on the cart guttered and flickered. Delae could barely hang onto hers - but she did, switching it from hand to hand to give each cold aching wrist and arm relief. Both were strained and sore by the time they finally reached the road.

With no sign of the passage of a wagon south, they turned north and soon enough found the stranded travelers, huddled together for warmth in the shelter of the overturned wagon. One horse was down, tangled in its traces, still kicking weakly as the other fought to stay upright with his fellow fallen beside him.

Delae’s heart sank at the sight.

The wagon was huge, a massive farm wagon, far larger than she’d expected, put to use no doubt for the family visit to distant relatives, the last such chance to do so before the snows closed the pass to Raven’s Nest. As it no doubt would be now.

It was easy enough to see what had happened. As the mud had grown thicker it had bogged the wheels of the wagon until they’d hit a low wallow. There the wheels on one side had caught completely, pulling them off the road. The wagon had gone over in a slow but inevitable roll onto its side. Now one side of the wagon was mired in the mud - making it far more difficult to raise.

There had to be more than a dozen people there, a few men but mostly women and children, all shivering in the cold. One of the men
Marlan’s father
? was also injured.

It was clear the cart would never hold all of them. They would have to right the wagon.

One of the other men cried out to her in relief as he staggered to his feet.

“Thank God you’ve come!” he said as she dismounted.

“How many are injured?” she shouted over the wind. “And how badly?”

“Forman is the worst,” the man responded. “He struck his head. One of the children has a broken arm. The rest are only bruises.”

 That was a relief. Their thick clothes and hay had likely softened the fall, preventing more injuries.

“Get Forman and the child in the cart and as many of the other children as you can. There are blankets there. Try to get them warm,” she said, as she fought the wind and mud to have a look at the wagon. “Dan, I need you. Morlis, help them. Tad, keep the horses still.”

She slogged through the frozen mud.

At least the axle hadn’t broken. That had been her worst fear, as it would have made everything much harder. Otherwise, they would’ve had to take them back in stages with the fragile cart - each trip risking another accident such as this one while those remaining waited in the freezing cold.

If they could even get the wagon turned over and that was very doubtful.

The storm raged around them as Delae held her torch high examining the situation.

“If we cut the traces of the fallen horse,” Dan said, grimly, “we’ll lose pull.”