The barn had served generations of both Polders and bullocks. Countless calves had been born here and yearlings raised, safe from the savage storms that wailed through the M?r in winter, tearing down trees, stripping thatch from roofs. There remained a stolid practicality to the construction of the place, but also a simple beauty.
She faced the lake again, her heart growing heavy. Their family had spent every winter here. Memories overlapped the view: hauling in woven traps full of tiny armored kryll or larger pincered siltclaws, fishing the depths for whiskered mudfins, or fighting to haul in the sleek karpbows. She remembered those autumns when the lake’s surface would be covered by winter geese, their honks deafening. Or those rare frigid snaps in the depths of winter that would rime the edge of the lake with ice.
Still, as familiar as this place was, she felt a distance from it now. She had always known in her heart what Fellfire Scour must look like. Over the years, she had filled in the blanks that her clouded eyes could not see. Only now her new eyes erased those spots and refilled them with details she had never imagined. What was once home now seemed both familiar and strange. She felt no longer a part of it, and it broke her heart even more.
Saddened at the loss, she closed her eyes and listened to the rising chorus of croaks instead. That had not changed. She picked out the different calls. Her dah had taught them to her. The pluck-crunk of emerald-green sprigfrogs, and the heavier gronking of platter-sized wartoads. Above that noise, as if scolding the chorus, the clacking of stiff reeds sounded all around as the rods swayed in the breeze.
She sighed and finally opened her eyes. Tears blurred her vision, which was just as well. The loss of detail brought her closer, to this place and to another.
“How my dah loved the Scour,” she whispered. “We all promised to bury him in the sands here.”
Jace pushed closer. “We can still do that. I’m sure the prioress will attend to his body until we can manage to return.”
Nyx wanted to scoff at his words but kept silent. She knew in her heart that would never happen. She turned from him and crossed to the front of the sledge. “I should see to Gramblebuck. Get him untethered so he can properly graze.”
Jace followed. “I think he’s doing fine on his own.”
Gramblebuck had his nose buried in a field of blooming honeyclotts, disturbing fat bees, which he flapped his ears at. He munched on the flowers and rooted his curled tusks in the sandy mulch, digging for the richer musty tubers. The vast fields that circled the lake and stretched a distance into the forest were another reason this site had been chosen for the barn.
She ran a hand over the old bullock’s flank, feeling each chew and grind under her palm. She checked the straps, bellybands, hame, and bridle. She searched for rub-sores at the bindings, but a century of hauling sledges had toughened those spots. A pang of guilt spiked through her, knowing her friend would never have been so calloused if not for his labors all these many years.
Gramblebuck noted her approach and turned his damp snout toward her. He snuffed and licked phlegm from his nostrils. He nosed and huffed at her. She noted the gray fogging in his eyes, marking his age. She took his horns and pressed her forehead to him. She inhaled his sweet musk.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. Her words were too feeble to truly encompass her gratitude.
Still, he nudged her back, licked her hand, then with a final chuff, he returned to his grazing. She stepped back and started to free him from the sledge.
“Maybe you’d better keep him tied,” Jace said. “At least until Ablen and Bastan return. We don’t know if we may need to leave in a hurry.”
Nyx remembered her brother diving into the black waters. She straightened and nodded. Gramblebuck shifted a few steps, dragging the sledge behind him to reach a fresh patch of honeyclotts. He plainly had no problem grazing while hitched up.
A gentle whining reminded her that the old bullock was not the only one using this reprieve to fill his stomach. Her winged brother sped silently overhead, sweeping through the droning clouds of gnats and suckers. The bat had left her shoulder’s perch as soon as the Scour opened up, drawn by the steaming bounty that buzzed heavily over the water.
She watched his path until he vanished into the shadows.
“Perhaps we should eat, too,” Jace said. He had shifted to the back of the sledge. “No telling how long we might be waiting here.”
He lugged out a large black kettle that had been roped in place, his face reddening with the effort. He stumbled to the side and carried it a few steps and then lowered it to the sand.
She drifted over as he lifted the lid. The familiar aroma of stewed potageroot and marsh hare carried to her, stopping her. She trembled where she stood.
“It’s still warm,” Jace noted aloud. He tested with a fingertip, then licked it clean. “Oh my, that’s good.”
Overcome, Nyx fell to her knees. She pictured her dah stirring that pot, recognizing now it was the last stew he would ever make. The smell—which always meant home—now churned her stomach to a roil. She lurched over. Her belly clenched, and she heaved a stream of bile into the sand. She gasped and coughed, until finally all she could do was sob, bent in half, bitter bile on her tongue.
Jace was there, dropping beside her. “I’m sorry. I’m such a feckin’ mooncalf. I wasn’t thinking.”
She covered her face and straightened. “No,” she moaned, still quaking with sobs. “It’s not your fault.”
It’s all mine.
She lowered her hands. Jace had resealed the kettle, but the aroma still seasoned the air. She stared off into the swamp beyond the Scour. She needed Ablen and Bastan, maybe even the dark prince and the alchymist.
What is taking everyone so long?
* * *
KANTHE TWISTED TO the side as Mallik’s sword stabbed at him. If not for his thin form and his unexpected turn toward the vy-knight at the last moment, he would have taken the full length of the blade through his body. Still, the sword’s edge knifed through his tunic and sliced a fiery line across his chest.
Kanthe continued to spin away from the sword, only to fall into the arms of the second knight posted at the front of the raft. Before the man’s grip could tighten, Kanthe used panic to fuel a speed honed from his many years hunting. He snatched an arrow from his quiver and stabbed at his captor’s eye. The steel point struck soft flesh and hard bone. A sharp scream followed, freeing him.
He ducked, shoving his attacker back with his arse. Mallik came at him, swinging his sword in a double-fisted grip at Kanthe’s head. Already tucked, Kanthe leaped to the side and rolled over one shoulder. The sword struck the half-blinded vy-knight in the meat of his calf, nearly taking his leg off. With a cry, he toppled into the swamp.
As Kanthe finished his roll, he smoothly freed his bow and brought it to bear. He skidded on a knee, with his other foot planted. It was a skill taught to him by a Cloudreach scout, the revered hunters of the misty greenwood. He had practiced it over and over, hoping to one day traipse that dangerous forest on his own.
Mallik hollered his rage, clearly never expecting such a move from the Prince in the Cupboard, the drunken Tallywag. He rushed at Kanthe, who had an arrow in hand but struggled to fix it to the bowstring. Panic apparently only carried one so far.