Into the Forge

Chapter 4

"The High King?" blurted Tipperton, his face stricken. "You mean the dead man was the High King?" A chill wind swirled through the barren trees and across the clearing.

Prell shook his head. "Not likely, miller. Unlike your man, High King Blaine has bright red hair, like my boy Arth, or so I've heard it said."

"But the brand on the horse-"

"Ar, all the High King's horses have such a brand," said Gwyth. "Hundreds of them. More likely this was someone in his service, a Kingsman of some sort-herald, messenger, warrior, or aught else. Who's to know?"

Beau looked at Tip. "Mayhap a courier bearing a message."

Tip's hand strayed to his neck.

"Oh, by the bye, Mayor," said Beau, fishing inside his jerkin, "we found this." He took out the square of ebon cloth, holding it up so all could see the crimson sigil it bore.

Now the mayor took it. "Hmm. A ring of fire on black." He looked up at the men. "Does anyone know whose sign this is?"

Men shrugged and shuffled their feet and looked at one another… and none knew.

Prell glanced at the Warrows. "Was this the man's or did it belong to the Foul Folk?"

Now the buccen shrugged, and Beau said, "It was lying 'neath a dead Ruck, but it could have been the man's."

Prell looked about, then glanced in the direction of Beacontor beneath the gathering overcast. "Well, lads, we're not going to solve anything here, and we've got to get back to town and see how the muster goes. My boy Arth should be riding back from the tor before dark with word as to why the beacon burns and whether or no we're needed. If we are, I'd like to start out first thing in the morning." He turned and fixed Tipperton and then Beau with his gaze. "As for you two, the muster's underway, and every bow and blade will count, as well as every chirurgeon."

"But I'm not a chirurgeon, Mayor," said Beau. "Just a plain healer instead. Herbs and simples, powders and potions, nostrums and medicks and salves and poultices, needle and gut: that's my trade."

Prell tossed the black banner back to Beau, saying, "Nevertheless, lad, you and the miller, you'll both be needed. So come to the square in Twoforks, and wear your winter eiderdown-warm socks and boots, too-for we may spend many a frigid night on the land with no fires to warm us, and it wouldn't do to freeze in the dark." He then clapped his plain iron helmet back onto his head and fastened the chin strap. "Besides, maybe someone there'll know who this dead man was, or know of Agron, or know of this dark flag. Regardless, the lads and I'll get back to the village and see just what's what. And you two come as soon as the fire's burnt down"-he glanced about at the winter-dry woods-"can't leave it untended, you know."

"We shouldn't be too long, Mayor Prell," said Tipperton, gesturing at the dwindling blazes. "Midafternoon or so."

It was, however, late in the day under lowering skies ere the fires fell into coals and the coals themselves began to darken. Tipperton and Beau took turns shoveling snow upon the embers, the cinders hissing, steam rising into the air. And even as they did so, a new fall of snow began drifting down from the overcast above.

Tip had nailed a square of canvas over the broken window, and after a look about, he latched up the mill and patted the door and said, "Well, eld damman, it may be awhile before I get back. Take care."

Beau cocked his head. "You speak as if the mill were alive."

Tip smiled. "If you ever heard her talking, grumbling as she worked, you'd think so, too, what with her creaks and groans as she grinds her teeth on grain."

Beau laughed aloud and hefted his bag, while Tipperton shouldered his knapsack and took up his quiver and bow, and together they set off through the whiteness falling down.

After a brief stopover at Beau Darby's cottage, where that buccan packed a knapsack of his own and changed into his down winter clothes, they made their way toward the town square in Twoforks. Night had fallen and the snow continued to drift down, muting the winter sounds, the furtive sounds, of the surrounding woods-now a vole scrabbling beneath the leaves; now a hare kicking up and away; now the pad of a fox; now the call of a distant owl- all amid the faint tick of snowflakes striking sparse dry leaves yet clinging to the brittle branches. Through this not quite stillness the buccen walked without speaking, each lost in his own thoughts: Beau mentally ticking off items he had packed, making certain he'd brought everything he needed to answer the muster; Tip fretting over the slain man's request. Trudging in silence, at last they could see lights from Twoforks up the lane, and the muted quiet was broken by sounds of activity ahead. As they came into the fringes of the village, the whole town seemed alight and abustle, with folks scurrying to and fro on unknown errands, their lanterns blooming halos in the snowfall. Cottages and houses were lighted as well, and through windows the buccen could see men packing goods, while some women helped and others wept, and children capered or cried, depending on how the mood struck them.

Among this flurry of activity, Tip and Beau made their way inward, toward the commons, and men with weapons slung and knapsacks on their backs made their way inward as well.

An oldster standing in the street and stamping his feet to ward off the cold stepped out to bar the buccen's way, saying, "Here, now, you two, no children allowed. This is the work for-"

"Beg pardon, Mr. Cobb," called Beau. "But it's me, Beau Darby, and Tip."

The oldster bent down and squinted through the snow and then reared back. "Bless me, but it is you, Mr. Darby. And miller Thistledown as well."

"Mr. Cobb, you shouldn't be out in the cold, what with your bad joints and all."

The oldster waved a hand toward Beacontor. "Well, Mr. Darby, everyone's got to help in times like these. 'Sides, that willow bark tea laced with chamomile is just the thing for my achy joints and twitchy legs, and for that I thank you, and I'll drink some later. But for now I'm just doing my duty, directing folks of the muster where to gather."

"Why, the town square is where we're headed."

"Oh, no, Mr. Darby. It's down to the stables and out of the storm, what with this snow and all."

Beau glanced at Tip, then said, "We thank you, Mr. Cobb. But mind you, now, be certain to take that tea when you get home-a double dose."

The old man bobbed his head and stepped aside, and Tip and Beau trudged on. They hadn't gone for mor,e than a few steps when Tip turned about. "I say, Mr. Cobb, is the mayor at the stables as well?"

The oldster hitched 'round and waggled a finger. "No, no, Mr. Thistledown. Last I heard he was over to the Fox, holding a war council, I believe."

Tip raised a hand-"Thank you, Mr. Cobb"-then turned to Beau. "I want to see the mayor. It may be that he's gotten some information concerning the dead man, or perhaps Agron."

Beau nodded, and they set out for the Red Fox Inn, located on the northwest corner of the town square, diagonally across from and marginally larger than the Running Horse, the only other hostel in town.

Shortly they arrived and made their way past a pair of blowing horses tied to the hitching rail. As the buccen stepped to the porch and stomped the snow from their boots, "Hmph," said Beau, nodding toward the chuffing steeds, "looks like they've been atrot."

Tip started to reply, but in that moment there came a roar from within. He looked at Beau and raised an eyebrow, and Beau shook his head and turned up his hands. Cautiously, Tip opened the door, and a clamor of rage bellowed outward. Together the buccen entered in among a press of shouting men. Above the din they could hear the pounding of a hammer or some such upon wood, yet down among the legs and stamping feet, there was little they could see, and less yet that they could make out among the shouted epithets and cries of outrage. But slowly the uproar subsided, and as Tip and Beau wormed their way among the men and across the common room, they could hear someone calling for order.

Now the buccen reached the stairwell to the rooms above, and they clambered up to a place where they could see, men making way for them once they saw who they were.

Behind the bar Mayor Prell yet banged a bung mallet down upon the wood, and called over and again for order. Before him stood two men in riding gear, their cloaks yet laden with snow.

Beau turned to Tip. "Do you know either of them?"

"One is Willoby," hissed Tip. "A crofter from up near the Crossland. I mill his grain. The other, I think, is his eldest son, Harl."

As Beau nodded, a sudden quiet fell, and Prell, glaring about, finally laid the mallet aside. Then he turned to the crofter and his son. "How many?"

"Not counting the Rucks, five altogether," replied the older man.

Again a cry of outrage erupted, which was quelled quickly by Prell pounding the mallet upon the bar.

"Wot 'r' they doin' this far west?" shouted someone from the crowd.

Prell hammered against the bar once more and glared the man into silence, then turned to the crofters.

"It looked like a running battle to me, Mayor," said Willoby. "First we found the one man dead among the killed Rucks-"

Tip sucked in air and looked at Beau, that buccan's eyes, too, gone wide, but he said nothing as Willoby continued:

"… and a mile or two later another deader, and on down the Wilder they went, dead Rucks and such and men. Hacked. Their horses killed too.

"We broke off the search and cut for here when we came nigh, seeing as how we were riding to answer the muster. 'Sides, we were both thinking that this might mean something to Twoforks, these dead men."

"Especially with the fire on Beacontor," added Harl.

The mayor shook his head. "I don't think-"

"Oh," blurted Harl, " 'nother thing, the brands, couple o' them was ridin' King's horses."

A collective gasp and murmur rippled through the gathering, and again Tip and Beau glanced at one another, while Mayor Prell pounded for order.

"Do you suppose-?" began Tip, but the room fell to quietness as Prell asked Willoby, "Are you certain? King Blaine's brand?"

"It was the crown, all right," averred the crofter, "them horses that was layin' where we could see."

As if by intuition, Prell's eye found Tipperton and Beau sitting on the steps behind the banister. The mayor sighed and returned his gaze to Willoby and the youth. "Then there were at least six of these men: another one was killed by Spawn out by the mill."

This brought another grumble from the crowd, a voice or two rising above the others:

"Hoy, Mayor, wot would Kingsmen be doin' out this way?" called someone.

"Mayhap it's all tied up with this Beacontor business," declared another.

Speculation rumbled through the gathering, various voices calling out opinions and possibilities, and Mayor Prell, a pensive frown on his face, let it run on awhile. At last he pounded the bar again for quiet.

"Is there aught you would add?" he asked Willoby and 1 his son. They looked at one another and shrugged. "Well then, I suppose that's it for now."

Now Prell addressed the assembly entire. "Men, as to what's going on, for the moment it's all spookwater and vapors. When my boy Arth gets back with word from Beacontor, then perhaps we'll know what to do, where to go, and even what these Rucks and such are doing out here in the Wilderland. Till then there's nought we can do except stay vigilant. Now what I want you all to do is go down to the stables and get some rest, all but the ones assigned to guard duty. If aught happens, someone will ring the fire gong, and then we'll form up in our squads and meet whatever challenge or peril awaits. Any questions?"

"Hoy, Mayor, shouldn't your boy be back anow?"

Prell's face fell grim. "Aye, Redge, unless he was-"

"Oy, mayhap he ran into trouble," declared Redge, a beefy man. "Rucks or some such."

"Here, now," protested the small man next to Redge, sketching a warding sign in the air, "there's no cause to bring trouble down on the boy."

The mayor banged his makeshift gavel, then said, "Arth is a good lad. He can well take care of himself. I think perhaps the snow has held him up. He should be arriving any moment now."

Redge cast a skeptical eye but remained silent. Someone else, though, asked, "When he does come, you'll let us know what word he brings, right?"

Prell nodded. "Aye, that I will."

"And if no word comes from Beacontor, Mayor…?"

"Well, Redge, if no word comes, we march to the tor on the morrow."

Prell looked about to see if there was aught any wanted to add, but the men waited in silence. "Dismissed!" barked the mayor at last.

Muttering, the men began filing out from the Red Fox, speculation yet running high as to the fire on Beacontor, the slain Kingsmen, and the Spawn being this far west from their normal haunts. Beau got up to go, but Tip reached out a staying hand. "Not yet, Beau," he said. "I need to speak to the mayor." Beau cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as he sat back down.

At last the place emptied out, but for the buccen and Mayor Prell and three members of the elder council-two thin oldsters, Trake and Gaman, and robust Tessa, hefty owner of the Fox.

The council members moved toward one of the round tables as Tip and Beau came down from the stairs and crossed the common room. Prell placed a ribbon-bound scroll and four small stone weights on the board and seated himself, saying, "It's a grim business, these Kingsmen. We need to make certain that they're taken up and given a decent pyre." As the others nodded, the mayor espied the Warrows. "Ho, lads, you two had better go on down to the stable as well. If things are as serious as they seem, I'm thinking we'll be marching tomorrow to Beacontor."

Tip shook his head and glanced at Beau, then said, "No, Mayor, not me. I'm not going."

"Not going!" blurted Beau. "Wha-?"

Tip turned to his friend. "Look, Beau, when I heard about the other slain Kingsmen, I made up my mind."

"Made up your mind?"

"Yes," said Tip, and he tapped a finger to his collar. "Instead of answering the muster, I'm going east to deliver this coin."