The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 8

  And someone was coming.

  Cob stayed very still, breathing silently, listening for trouble. He had always had sharp ears. Through the stucco walls he could hear the family moving around in the cottage, all accounted for.

  He caught a step in the dust, distant but audible—leather scuffing on hard dirt. Then another. Then more.

  Strangers. And this was bandit country.

  The tools were in the shed. The razor was not his kind of weapon; he had never liked knives. He took it with him anyway as he moved to the cottage wall and peered around the back to where he had heard the sounds.

  There. Emerging from the trail beneath the fruit trees. One, two, three. Though indistinct in the dusk, he saw clearly the shapes of swords at their belts.

  The stick? he thought. It was long and heavy enough to match against a blade, but he had left it by the front step. Three swordsmen against him with a stick?

  But what else could he do?

  He tucked the razor into his borrowed belt and slunk silently along the wall toward the front of the cottage, aware that he must be paralleling the intruders. The ladder loomed up in the dimness and he nearly walked into it. Cursing internally, he slipped by, but as he reached the corner, he heard a knock at the door.

  Inside, unhurried footsteps moved toward it.

  A frisson of visceral unease ran up his spine. This was too much like Fellen and the bad things that he—

  ‘Guard the door, Cob, and if you see freesoldiers, holler.’

  ‘But—‘

  ‘We won’t be half a mark, and these girls… Well. We can count on you, right?’

  —had let happen.

  The twin needles of shame and anger stuck him, and he inhaled shortly, feeling the past trying to constrict his heart. But the situation had changed; he was older now, and bigger, and out from the shadow of that first team of bastards. They had gotten what they deserved, and so would these.

  The time was now: before she opened the door, before they pushed their way in. He braced his feet in the dirt, then sprang around the corner, already charging.

  Three men stood at the step, outlined by the soft glow from the cottage’s heart. Cob’s eyes locked onto the stick—right next to them, a bad position—so he ducked his head and aimed his shoulder at the third man, hitting him full-force in the chest before he could do more than drop his hand to his sword-hilt. The breath whoofed out of the man and he sprawled into the dirt, barely missing the brick edge of a raised bed of bean-bushes, and Cob sprang back—quick, practiced, having ambushed more than his share of troublemakers. His right hand found the stick blindly as he rounded on the other two, their faces showing startlement and the first bloom of fear. The cottage light shone on their half-bared blades.

  Half-bared was not good enough. Though they were close, Cob was used to quicker retaliation from the rowdy slave-workers, so he whipped the stick up toward the second man’s throat.

  “Cobrin.”

  His name, spoken so sharply, stopped him short, and he stepped back without striking though the anger ran hot behind his eyes. The door was open, he realized. Ammala stood there, arms crossed. What is she doing? he thought. The two men finished drawing their swords.

  “Stop that. Put those away,” she said, scowling. “If you cannot act civilly, you will not be stepping inside.”

  Nerves abuzz, he did not understand what she wanted and nearly ignored her--nearly struck for the hesitating men. But then they sheathed their swords, and Cob retreated another step in confusion. Their eyes on him were hard and hateful, but the one he had knocked down just looked startled, and very young.

  Suddenly Cob felt the same. He backed off further and let his arms sag, embarrassment heating his face.

  “Put the stick down,” said Ammala sternly.

  He dropped it and held up his hands. The red still lurked behind his eyes, the tension and all the old fights singing through his muscles, trying to urge him on. With the light behind her, it was hard to read Ammala’s expression, but he knew she was angry. These must be guests.

  She should’ve warned me.

  “Well, come in then,” she said to the men, “but perhaps you oughtn’t stay for supper.” She retreated into the cottage, but the men stared another long moment at Cob, and he finally focused enough to see them properly: two weary older fellows and a boy just past peach-fuzz.

  Then they went inside, and the door closed against him.

  He sat down on the spot, forcing himself to breathe slowly and shake off the fighting urge. The Crays were obviously under no threat, and that changed everything. While he could have shrugged off his suspicions of witchery, Ammala had not greeted these men as family—which meant they were three of the many who had fled their farms and homesteads rather than be conscripted into Imperial service. Like Horrum, they were criminals in the eyes of the Army.

  Bandits or not, Ammala was aiding and abetting them.

  I should go. Get out of here before she tells them I’m from the Army, before they run off and get more of their comrades to deal with me. Before I have to—

  Do what, Cob? Haul them in to the Army yourself? Not exactly in a position to be enforcing Imperial laws.

  He exhaled heavily. There were so many things he should do, but none that did not involve giving himself up. Running now—removing himself from the situation—seemed the only option, though his stomach might mutiny if it did not get its promised supper.

  And to think I tried to protect them.

  …No. I don’t regret that.

  Regardless of his feelings, though, he knew he had botched this haven. He had his canteen, his boots and these new local clothes; he could slip away now while they were busy, make for the merchant road and then lose himself in an Illanic city. It would take some walking, and he had neither food nor coin, but he would manage. Somehow.

  North seemed the best option. If he was still south of Fellen, he could not turn south without hitting the Army, and though he never wanted to see Fellen again, right now it felt preferable to the Army camp. If he was north of Fellen…

  Anywhere else could only be better.

  The mother moon gave enough light to walk by. They would not follow him in the dark.

  Unless…

  He looked around, suddenly wary. The barn-cat. It had been around all day, mainly napping and ignoring him, but like everything that served the Dark, he knew that cats prowled the night. They saw through shadows, through walls, through your flesh and into your soul, the inescapable eyes of the Dark.

  And there, on the edge of the dry wash that ran south of the cottage, was the cat. Cob scrambled to his feet. It stared at him, yellow eyes reflecting the emerging moonlight, then approached with a saunter like it had mastered the world.

  Cob balked at the idea of retreating from a small animal, and considered kicking it, but that seemed unwise. Witchcats were said to be tied to their witches, so unless it was the old woman’s cat and not Ammala’s, he did not dare.

  As if unconcerned, the cat padded up to him and sat primly on his foot, then butted its blunt-eared head against his shin with a weird lilting purr.

  “Stop that,” he told it, but it paid no attention.

  Bracing himself, he reached down and picked it up. Beneath the striped fur, it was a stocky mass of muscle and bone, a tiny hunter. He stared at it and it stared back, unblinking, then swatted his nose with a soft paw. Not even a whisper of claws.

  “Cob?” said a voice behind him, and he yelped and nearly flung the cat. It twisted in his grip and leapt down, skittering away in a blink. Turning, he found Aedin watching him in bafflement. “Ma says you can come in now,” said the boy.

  “Oh. All right.”

  Aedin ducked back inside and Cob followed warily, wondering if it was a trap. All three strangers were there, the two elder men passing a jug between them while Ammala bustled around the hearth area. The younger one—the one Cob had knocked down—stood by the dividing-curtain, talking quietly to the elder daughte
r. The rest of the family had retreated behind that curtain.

  The older men glowered Cob’s way and he ducked his head reflexively. Their glares became sneers.

  “Behave, all of you,” said Ammala. “Cob, close the door and sit in the corner. This won’t take long.”

  “Neither would taking him out back,” growled one of the men, a grizzled, scar-faced fellow closer to Nana Cray’s age than Ammala’s. It was clear bravado. In the light now, Cob saw the raggedness of their clothes and the makeshift nature of their swords, wrapped in burlap to hide the dents and pits. Their palms were callused from plow and sickle, not from weapons. Slave-worker though Cob was, he had still gone through some training. He could have taken them all with the stick.

  He sensed they knew that. The other man, fleshier-faced and sunken-eyed, watched him like an edgy hare, weakly echoing his comrade’s snarls. The young one just stayed away.

  Cob seated himself on the floor near the door and kept his head down. He had already given them too many reasons to pick a fight. Ammala turned back to raiding bins and baskets, and he realized she was filling a sack with food: bags of beans, rounds of cheese, clay jars, wrapped packets and pouches of unknown substances, and several fist-sized root vegetables. Her face was tight as she measured things out.

  The way the men stood, patiently swapping the jug back and forth, told him that this was normal. Maybe even her choice.

  She turned finally and thrust the sack at the grizzled man, and with a nod toward Cob, she said, “You don’t bother him. He works for me now. I don’t care what he is or what he’s done, you will respect my rules in my territory or I will withdraw my support. I am not a priestess; I am not soul-bound to the Way of the Hearth, and if you insist on making trouble, my door will be closed to you. And you,” she said, jabbing a finger at Cob. “Start a fight again and I leave you to them.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Cob said, surprised that she had let him off the hook at all.

  “You ain’t thinking to let him stay,” said the grizzled man with unmasked contempt. “He’s an Imperial. You bloody well said it.”

  “A slave,” she corrected. “It’s not the boy’s fault.”

  All eyes turned to Cob, and he looked away, uncomfortable. Though he had known she would tell them about the Army part, he wished she had not mentioned his slave status. It was hardly remarkable but he had to wonder what these strangers, these free people, thought. Behind the curtain, the voices of Nana Cray and the younger children rose in whispers.

  “So he says,” grumbled the grizzled man.

  “I have seen the brand, Silus. They do not brand Imperial spies.”

  “Well, ain’t like brands come off. Who says he ain’t free now?”

  Which was a reasonable suspicion, and what would have happened to Cob in only a few months if not for his ‘escape’. The Empire believed that legacy children could learn better than the crimes of their parents. His mother would never have been released, but…

  Sorrow drew over him like a black cloak, too familiar. It had been with him for the five years since he had watched her eyes change as he told her of his conversion to the Light. His mother’s eyes, always so clear and determined despite their troubles. That tremulous smile had stayed on her lips as if drawn there, the warmth still in her voice when she told him she understood, that she loved him no matter his choice. But her eyes, that hollow darkness…

  —and the creak of the rope, the slow twist of the shadow at its end—

  “Cob,” said someone, very close, and he jerked back and whacked his head against the wall. Stars swam. Someone snickered.

  He blinked rapidly and found Ammala crouched before him, peering into his eyes with a look of concern. When he smiled weakly, she patted him on the cheek. “Perhaps I should not have set you to work so quickly,” she said. “Are you tired? You can go lay down.”

  The men watched him over her shoulder, their gazes derisive. His spine stiffened as he realized he had been clasping his knees like a child. “’M fine,” he said, and straightened out. In camp, he would have punched someone, but that was not possible here.

  Ammala snorted and stood, brushing her apron as if dusting off errant machismo. “Of course you are. Well, if that is all?”

  The whey-faced man had the sack now. The youngest had rejoined them, though Ammala’s elder daughter still watched from the curtain, her expression clouded. “We could take him with us,” Silus offered, tone wheedling now as if he thought she might have forgotten his malice. “Always need another pair of hands.”

  “No, Silus. You have enough enemies without making one of me. Do not make me speak to the Hammer.”

  “The Hammer would agree with me.”

  “You wish to test that?”

  Silus stared at Ammala, face stiff, then glanced to the curtain where her children peered out with wide eyes. “No,” he said. Then, with a sneer: “You can call to him yourself when this’n turns on you.”

  “We’ll see,” said Ammala.

  And that was that. The three men passed the jug around one last time, then returned it to Ammala, who snatched it as if expecting them to smash it. Adjusting his swordbelt, Silus led the way out; the boy lingered, casting looks toward the elder daughter, until Ammala gently closed the door against him.

  Nana Cray and the children emerged from the curtained area as Ammala returned to tending the stew-pot. The elder girl leveled a glare at Cob, while the younger huddled behind her. Oblivious, Aedin dragged a low table into position before the higher table by the hearth.

  “Cobrin, you’ll sit with the children,” said Ammala. “Despite the trouble, I can’t say that I’m displeased to not be serving the harvest men tonight.”

  “’Harvest men’?” Cob echoed.

  “I suppose you would call them ‘the rebels’—our men that yours drove from their land. They help with the planting and the harvests, then go back into hiding when the Imperials come around. They don’t often visit us, thank the Goddess. I dislike Silus’ ranting.”

  “But he’s right,” snapped the old woman as she settled into her seat at the higher table. “It’s the Imperialists like this one and your sympathizer-son that are—“

  “Paol is the only reason we still own this land,” said Ammala sharply. “We are Imperial citizens through his volunteering, and if you would rather be in a work-camp than a sympathizer’s home, you’re welcome to go. If not, then for Goddesses’ sake, be quiet.”

  Nana Cray closed her mouth and sank into her patterned shawl, deflating. Cob considered escape; he had wondered at the hostility of these women, and why they were alone out here when most of the lands had been taken by the Army. Now it seemed those two were intimately tied.

  But Ammala pointed to the mats that Aedin had rolled out and said, “Sit,” so he obeyed.

  Aedin plunked down next to him, grinning gap-toothedly. The girls settled on the other sides, the little one staring at the tabletop and fiddling with the sleeves of her dress while the elder glared a challenge.

  In the Army, Cob had not been one to fight for leadership, but deferring to a girl just seemed unnatural, so he stared back. She crossed her arms, mouth tightening. The motion defined a hint of female shape beneath the shapeless dress, and he averted his eyes.

  “Cob, these are my daughters, Izelina and Jesalle,” said Ammala from the hearth, indicating the elder then the younger. “Girls, this is Cob. He’ll be staying for a little while.”

  “Evenin’,” Cob mumbled.

  Izelina raked him with a haughty glance. “He looks like he crawled from a ditch.”

  “Izelina, be polite to our guest.”

  “He’s not a guest, he’s a stray dog.”

  Ammala smacked the spoon down, bustled over and grabbed Izelina by the chin, leaning low to tell her, “Keep your attitude to yourself or you will go outside and pick your own switch. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, mother,” said Izelina contritely. Ammala released her and turned away, and the girl sho
t Cob the most venomous look he had ever seen.

  All stayed quiet as Ammala filled bowls and distributed them along with a platter of bread and herbed cheese. Cob stared into the stew. Beans and slivers of onion and vegetable drifted in milky broth, and though he could barely smell it through his busted nose, it looked more appetizing than anything he could remember.

  Ammala sat last after pouring tea. She looked down at the fidgeting children and said evenly, “We give thanks to the Trifold Goddess, to the spirits of growing things, to the goat and the grain and the autumn rain. May the rivers run full again. Ahranxan.”

  “Ahranxan,” the children repeated, then dug in.

  Cob hesitated. The witchfolk prayer put his hackles up. Now so plainly stated, he could not ignore the neck-cords all the females wore: all white for Jesalle, two white strands and one red for Izelina, all three grey for the old woman. It was some sort of ritual thing, something to do with blood, and he was suddenly all too aware of the overwhelming presence of red in the embroidery on everyone’s clothes, his included.

  But no one in the family had sharpened cannibal-teeth, and except for some hostility they had done nothing that merited wariness. Beside that, his stomach was a tyrant, unconcerned by his fears. Under its command, he finally tried a spoonful.

  Heat bit into his tongue—not physical but something in the broth that made his mouth catch fire. He nearly spat it back into the bowl. Illane and the lands further south were famous for their spices, but this was no spice, this was poison.

  Sweat sprang up on his brow as he stared around at the others, not wanting to swallow. They had bent to the food intently, but Ammala cast him an amused glance and said, “You might wish to avoid the peppers. The shiny green bits.”

  He looked down into the bowl. Indeed, shiny green bits floated among the more recognizable vegetables, and though his eyebrows still felt like they might combust, nothing else had happened. Reluctantly he swallowed and felt the fire work its way down his throat. Across the table, Izelina fanned herself mockingly.