Frieda's Tale

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“Where the hell is he?”

Frieda started awake, half-convinced Hoban had torn down her wards, burst into her private tent and was shouting at her. The tent was empty… in her dazed state, it took her several moments to realise that her boyfriend was outside and that he was shouting at someone else. Her dreams… she gritted her teeth, trying to recall the shadows that had haunted her. There’d been something, casting a long shadow over her, and… she clambered out of the bedroll, pulled her tunic over her underclothes and poked her head out of the tent.

Hoban was addressing Ivanovo and his gang, who looked torn between nervousness and grim obstinacy. Frieda sighed, inwardly. She knew that look. The mountainfolk could only be pushed so far before they started pushing back, even if it cost them everything.

“Where?” Hoban’s anger was almost palpable. “Where is he?”

“Great Lord, we don’t know.” Ivanovo’s voice shook. “He should have been up here!”

Frieda cleared her throat as a cold gust of air blew across the campsite. The artefact’s brooding presence hung in the air, a mocking reminder they were touching something very inhuman. The diggers were gathered by the edge of the site, save for Hoban and Frieda herself. They looked pissed. Frieda wondered, numbly, what had gone wrong. She hadn’t seen someone look so angry and frustrated since Cat had had a nasty fight with Emily and stormed off…

“Garry hasn’t shown up for work,” Hoban hissed. His anger made the local lads flinch. Again. They might not have seen his magic, but they knew he had it. “And a bunch of tools are missing.”

“I see.” Frieda frowned. It wasn’t uncommon for the mountainfolk to harass unwelcome visitors, but stealing tools was odd. Stealing brides was one thing, stealing tools and everything else that kept people alive through the winter was quite another. “I’ll go down to his home, see if I can find him. You stay with the diggers.”

She saw Ivanovo’s face twist. He might know what had happened to the tools — like most commoners, he was very good at hiding his feelings in front of his betters — but even if he didn’t, the village was likely to suffer. He’d assume the diggers would make them pay for the tools… at the very least, given they probably didn’t have the money to pay for even one of the lost items, they wouldn’t be paid for their services over the last few weeks. Frieda tried not to roll her eyes as she walked past them to the campfire and took a ration bar, then made her way down to the road. Behind her, she could hear Hoban driving the locals back to work. He wasn’t going to let something as minor as missing tools stand between him and the artefact.

The air felt clearer, the moment she stepped beyond the boundary line. Frieda took a long breath, tasting summer on the breeze, then kept walking down the rough road. It needed some improvement, she noted, but it was unlikely anyone would bother. The locals certainly wouldn’t. They’d see better roads as a threat to their way of life — it would make it easier for taxmen to reach their village — and the local lord would probably agree. The only thing that let Lord Harold style himself as King of Kings was the simple fact it was difficult for any of the neighbouring monarchs to teach him a lesson by marching an army to his door. A road would force him to tone down his pretensions before he got thrashed by a real king.

And serve him right, Frieda thought, coldly. She’d never liked Alassa’s father — King Randor had been a predator in expensive outfits — but she couldn’t deny he’d always had the wellbeing of his kingdom, as he saw it, at heart. Lord Harold doesn’t give a shit about his subjects. He doesn’t even try to improve his kingdom.

She put the thought aside as she reached the edge of the village. The menfolk were already setting off to the tiny patches of cropland, giving her a wide berth for fear of her power. Their younger counterparts — goatherds, boys too weak to be of any real use anywhere else — gave her weird looks, as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted to stare or do everything they could to avoid catching her eye. Frieda frowned as she noted one of the ‘boys’ was actually a girl, something that should have been impossible to hide. There was no point in trying to keep something like that a secret, not in a tiny village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Perhaps she was a visiting relative… rare, but not impossible. Or perhaps she was just overthinking it. There was no reason a young girl couldn’t work as a goatherd.

Particularly if her father doesn’t have enough sons, Frieda reminded herself. He’d have to put his daughter to work.

She paused, taking a breath as she stopped outside Garry’s shack. It was slightly larger than her family’s home, with a tiny patchwork of herbs outside the door, but otherwise it was little different. She stepped up to the door and knocked hard, even though she was fairly sure Garry wasn’t at home. The villagers couldn’t afford to coddle their youths. Garry wouldn’t have been allowed to stay in bed unless he was very ill…

… And if he had stolen the tools, she reflected, it was unlikely he was hiding out in his own home.

The door opened, revealing an old woman. Frieda winced, inwardly, as the woman saw her and took a step back, making a hex sign to ward off evil. Garry’s mother probably feared and envied her… she put the thought out of her head and leaned forward, silently asking if she could enter the dwelling. The woman — she looked old enough to be a great-grandmother — stepped back silently, her face unreadable. Frieda tried not to notice the nasty bruise on the side of her face.

“I’m looking for Garry,” she said, curtly. The shack was hot, the air thick and stinking of… something. She didn’t want to know. She was almost grateful for the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked around the chamber. The bedding had already been put away, rags piled high in the corner to wait for nightfall. A cast iron pot hung over the fireplace, steam bubbling into the air. “Where is he?”

Garry’s mother stammered. “I don’t know,” she managed. “He didn’t come home last night…”

“Shut your mouth, you dumb bitch,” a new voice snapped. The pile of rags seemed to shift and change… for a moment, Frieda honestly thought someone had been transfigured into rags and torn clothing before realising she’d missed the old man lying there. He’d been buried under the pile. “He’s not welcome here.”

“She,” Frieda corrected, tartly. The old man might not have gotten a good look at her in the half-light, but he’d heard her voice. Hadn’t he? She had no idea if he was trying to annoy her or he had trouble recognising a young woman in a position of power and she didn’t really care. “Where is your son?”

The man glowered at her. Frieda could practically sense the alcohol fumes surrounding him. “None of your business,” he growled, something that dumbfounded her. If the entire village didn’t know who she was, and what she’d done to Ivanovo and his gang, she’d be astonished. The story had probably swept from one end of the region to the other so quickly it would outrace a teleporting magician. “My son is not for the likes of you.”

“Great Lady,” Garry’s mother said. “My son…”

“I said, shut your mouth,” Garry’s father said. He stumbled forward, moving quicker than Frieda would have thought possible, and slapped his wife across the face. She staggered backwards and fell, landing on her rear. “I told you…”

Frieda blasted him. The man’s face went open in surprise, an instant before he melted into a frog. Frieda kicked him, her foot picking the tiny animal up and tossing him into the darkness. He’d be fine. Probably. The froggy mind would ensure he landed safely and he could hide until the spell wore off. Unless he tried to hide in an enclosed space… she shook her head. It wasn’t her problem.

“You…” Garry’s mother bit off her anger. “How…?”

Of course, she’s angry, Frieda thought, bitterly. The old woman looked ready to fight. The only thing keeping her from lashing out was fear, fear of ending up a frog herself or dead. It was absurd. How could she defend an abusive husband? But… Frieda already knew the answer. The wretched man was all that stood between the old woman and exposure. He’ll take it out on her, when the spell wears off.

She rubbed her forehead, tightening her wards. No one could ever call a mountain-born woman weak and feeble. Their lives were consumed with backbreaking labour, leaving them with formidable muscles. Garry’s mother could lay her out with a punch, if she had a chance. Looking at her face was like looking at the mirrors of Heart’s Eye, a brief glimpse of the person she could have been if things had been different. If Frieda hadn’t been the runt of the litter, and if she hadn’t had magic, she might have grown up to be just like the poor woman. And…

“I need something belonging to your son,” she said, quietly. She took a pair of gold coins from her pouch and held them out. “Quickly.”

The woman visibly hesitated, before taking the coins and turning to pick up a dirty shirt. Frieda made a quiet bet with herself that one of the coins would vanish before the old man — or his son — ever realised it existed. The old woman might just take it and run… or simply use it to get a better life. Frieda’s heart twisted — the coins were little to her, but wealth beyond compare to the old woman if she took them out of the village — as she took the shirt and performed the location spell. It should have pointed her straight to its owner. Instead, it twisted, nearly ripping itself apart.

Just like the knife, she thought, numbly. Where is he?

She gritted her teeth, reaching out with her mind. There was a faint hint of background magic within the shack, a strange sense that faded almost as soon as she looked at it. And yet… it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the vague sense of power blowing in the wind she’d known from childhood, the first hint — in hindsight — that she had powerful magic. It felt… wrong.

Something moved, on the edge of her awareness. She jumped back reflexively, narrowly avoiding a fist aimed at her throat. The woman kept coming, drawing her fist back for another punch. Frieda stunned her and watched, dispassionately, as her body crashed to the earthen floor. Garry’s mother… she wondered, numbly, what the old woman thought she was doing. Defending her husband? Or her son? Or herself? Frieda had heard all the tales of hedge witches, exacting gruesome revenge on everyone who crossed them. It was strange to realise she probably counted as a hedge witch too, at least in their eyes…

She stared down at the prone woman, her thoughts churning. Garry was missing, hidden from her spells. A side-effect of the artefact, whatever it was, or something else? Or… she shook her head as she heard a faint croak from the darkness. The spells would wear off and then… they’d probably pretend it had never happened. And… her mind spun as she turned to the door. If she’d stayed in the village, she would probably have wound up just like the poor woman. And she would have been exposed the moment she outlived her usefulness.

A wave of despondency washed over her. Do they even deserve to survive?

Her magic bubbled at the back of her mind, ready to cut loose, as she slipped back into the open air. The villagers were caught in a trap they’d never escape. They’d never have the chance to do anything but struggle for survival. The men would go out to the patchwork fields every morning, trying to scrabble out enough food for a few more days of life before coming home and drinking themselves into a stupor; the women would cook and clean and bear the brunt of their family’s anger before they grew too old and were sent out to die. And the children… they were doomed to grow up and repeat the cycle, time and time and time again. Her magic boiled. It would be easy, so easy, to burn the entire village to the ground and leave nothing but ashes behind. And…

Emily would never approve, Frieda told herself. There weren’t many people she cared about, let alone listened to, but Emily was right on top of the list. She’d find a way to make things better.

She sighed. The villagers didn’t deserve anything better. They’d treated her like shit, just for being the runt, before selling her to an uncertain fate. Frieda had no illusions. She’d been very lucky to be sent to Mountaintop, rather than a brothel or slave market. Not, she supposed, that anyone would have paid good money for her. She’d been a weakling, by local standards, and ugly beside. It had taken her several years of good food and healthy exercise — and magic — to grow into a young woman. If she’d stayed in the village, she’d be dead by now. No one would have taken her to wife.

“She’s gone,” someone wailed. “My child has gone!”

Frieda sighed inwardly and kept walking. It was probably a mercy. The poor girl was doomed to grow into a young women, get married off to some lout, bear his children and — if she was lucky — live just long enough to watch the cycle repeat itself before she died. Emily would have stopped to help, Frieda knew, but she… she just kept walking. Besides, it probably wasn’t that serious. The child had probably found a hidey-hole somewhere and gone to sleep. She’d done that as a little girl. Her back still had the scars.

The village fell away behind her as she kept walking aimlessly. She knew she should go straight back to the campsite, to report to Hoban, but she was lost in her own thoughts. The villagers were awful people and yet, she knew they were only doing what they needed to do if they wanted to survive. It was hard to think coldly and logically about the way they’d treated her. They’d had little choice — she really had been one more mouth to feed, one that might not even live long enough to grow into a young woman and get married off — but she couldn’t help taking it personally. It had been a mistake to return, she decided, as she shook off her funk and picked up speed. She’d stick around for another week and then…

A chill ran through the air as she crossed the boundary line. She couldn’t see the artefact, but she could feel it poisoning the land. How could Hoban not sense it? He’d told her stories of protected tombs, charmed to make diggers walk away… and forget, as they left, what they’d found… but this was different. Was something influencing his thinking? Or… or was he just determined to uncover the artefact and figure out what it actually was?

Which won’t be easy, if it dates back to the Faerie Wars, she mused. It might be completely beyond our comprehension.

Hoban nodded to her as she walked up to the site. “No sign of Garry,” he said, stiffly. “And the others swear blind they have no idea what happened to the missing tools.”

“I couldn’t find him,” Frieda said. “He wasn’t at his home, and the tracking spell simply refused to work. Again.”

“Someone is screwing with us,” Hoban growled. “Another magician, perhaps.”

Frieda frowned. It wasn’t impossible. Hoban had told her that it wasn’t the person who made the discovery who got the credit, but the person who reported back to the Archaeologist Guild. If someone was watching the dig from a safe distance — which wouldn’t have to be that far away, not in the Cairngorms — they might be planning to swoop down the moment the artefact was uncovered, kill the diggers and claim the credit for themselves. It would be risky — and the guild would probably smell a rat — but it could be done. Hell, the advance party had already vanished. The plotters might think they could get away with it. They might even be right.

“Perhaps,” she said, finally. “Or it might be someone a little closer to home.”

Hoban eyed her. “One of your old friends?”

Frieda scowled. “Ivanovo is hardly my friend,” she managed. She was surprised the headman’s son hadn’t gone whining to Hoban about Frieda turning him and his mates into frogs, even though they’d deserved it and worse. The bastard came from a society where the menfolk were responsible for their women, damn them. “But they do have a motive.”

“I see.” Hoban looked torn between the urge to demand answers, perhaps with magic, and a grim awareness it would be a severe breach of etiquette. “Why?”

“The more outsiders who come up here, the more their way of life is threatened,” Frieda told him. Hell, just by conscripting Ivanovo and his gang, the diggers had made it harder for the villagers to survive the winter. “They’ll want to do everything in their power to ensure we don’t find something that will draw more visitors.”

“We have money,” Hoban protested.

“Which is pretty useless if you don’t have anywhere to spend it,” Frieda pointed out, sardonically. “A bag of gold coins is worthless up here, so far from civilisation.”

She sighed. “I have an idea,” she said. “All we have to do is lie in wait.”