Blood Line - Secrets E-Book

Tale Monger

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Blood Line - Secrets

Fifteen-year old Aaron Hawke has reached adulthood standing astride two medieval worlds: that of mortal man, and that which mortal man condemns, fearing both who he is and what he is becoming. Cursed from his birth to mysterious parents and forced to conceal a sorcerer’s nascent power, Hawke does not believe his fragmented life can get any worse. But he is not the only one with secrets. An enemy, powerful beyond the young man’s imagination, planted the seeds of his death long before he was born - and the harvest is near. As the reaper attempts to claim his prize, Hawke is catapulted into the treacherous darkness of the world he fears, not knowing if he will ever again see the light. Surrounded by lies, betrayal, and death, and at the risk of his soul, the battle is joined. But neither he nor his foe has counted on the beast.

Blood Line – Secrets is set in the 14th Century in the remote Whele Fell of Northumbria, England near Hadrian’s wall. Long abandoned by royal decree, the Fell was feared as the hideout of cutthroats and the spawning ground of ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties. Only the very brave or very foolhardy dared ventured there.

Leseprobe

Tale Monger

Blood Line - Secrets

For Aaron, Lucie, Violet, and Grammy While we flee from our fate, we like fools run into it - (English Proverb) BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

FOUNDATION

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

           Blood Line – Secrets    All Rights Reserved.

     Copyright © 2013       v3.0

     Cover Photo © 2013. All rights reserved - used with permission. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

           Outskirts Press, Inc.     http://www.outskirtspress.com

           ISBN: 978-1-4787-0637-3

           Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BLOOD LINE - SECRETS

BY

THE TALE MONGER

For Aaron, Lucie, Violet, and Grammy

While we flee from our fate, we like fools run into it

(English Proverb)

THE FORBIDDEN WHELE FELL

CHAPTER 1

Northumberland, England

1399 A.D.

Aaron Hawke crashed to the reed-covered, dirt floor of his cottage, landing on his mud-stained boots. His heart thudded as foul images snarled inside his head. He rolled to his knees and pushed his linen night cap back from his burning eyes. His mouth tasted like moldy bread.

With his eyes clamped shut and his brain threatening to gallop out of his skull, he struggled to raise his sturdy six-foot frame off the floor, but he lost his balance and banged his head into the bed frame. A lightning bolt shot through his troubled brain. Instantly, one of his boots shot into the air. It launched across the musty room, crashing into the oak table. One of the two worn stools at the table shook, then flew across the room and smashed into the far wall before falling onto Frederick’s unmade bed.

Slowly, the thunder inside his skull abated and the pain began to melt away, leaving a dull ache. He opened his bloodshot eyes. The sun still slept, which was what he wished he was doing. The room was dark, except for a flicker of light in the fire pit.

He felt something move. His eyes shot up. A terrified mouse quivered on the rushes, a hand’s breadth from his eyebrows. Hawke grimaced. The mouse flinched. He pushed himself up and leaned against the bed. He ran his hands through his unkempt red hair and rubbed his aching noggin. The shivering mouse tiptoed forward, keeping a discreet distance.

The young man checked his armpits. No bumps. At least he didn’t have the plague. He was reasonably certain that he might live for another day. He looked down at the rodent.

“Sorry.”

“Scare,” whimpered the mouse. She lifted a paw and pointed at wall.

Hawke turned and saw the freshly chewed hole beneath his bed.

“Go?”

“Go.”

The mouse bolted through the hole.

The smith’s hammer blows echoed in the distance. Hawke almost wished that his “uncle” had awakened him. Throttling the recurring nightmare would have been a blessing. The dragon would stomp toward him, hissing smoke, its black eyes flaring like the burning faggots in Frederick’s forge. He would be pinned to a tree stump. The monster would lean over, a look of pity in its fiery eyes. Then it would raise a gigantic foot and crush his chest. Yet he felt nothing. As the other foot lowered onto his head, a black hole would open and he would tumble into bottomless depths whimpering, “Ellond is always right.”

The bittersweet odor of smoldering oak pricked his nose. The fire pit that lay in the middle of the cottage hissed weakly as sparks rose in its smoky fingers. At least Frederick had thrown a couple of branches into it before heading for the smithy to do battle with iron and flame.

Hawke verified that all his parts were still working. He pulled himself upright, dressed, and tossed several branches into the flickering fire pit, feeding the flames back to life. Then he grabbed a small cauldron from the tool shelf and headed to the larder. Two smoked and salted slabs, one of bacon and the other of beef, hung from the weigh-beam, and while he was a carnivore at heart, cold meat did not seem especially appetizing this morning. He grabbed the last four of yesterday’s eggs and a fistful of oats mixed with dried peas, making a mental note to see Fern Thornburn this day for more cackle-farts.

As usual, the clay jar of sliced dried beef was open. Frederick rarely capped it when he was in a hurry to get to work, which was most of the time. Yet Aaron knew the misplaced lid had a deeper meaning: eat, then work. He should, as a matter of nature, rise before dawn and plummet into his labors. After all, laziness is a sin. But since he was already in the smith’s shadowed graces for being a lazy lobkin, a few more minutes would not significantly affect his standing with the Lord – he hoped.

He boiled the eggs and oats, dreading the silent reproach that awaited him while he tried once again to find logic in his bewildering dream. He stuffed a peeled egg into his mouth and thought of his dagger-mates, who liked to tell him that he wolfed down his food. He washed the food down with a beaker of pear cider.

Having set the roof afire last winter, he glanced at the slate-lined, blackened vent hole in the thatch above him to make sure no sparks from the fire pit lurked in the thick rushes. Seeing no smoke over his head, he headed for the smithy to face his reproof for being slothful.

“Aaron, heat.” Frederick Hawke growled through his short, ragged beard as the young man entered. He neither missed his characteristic Bam-bam-BAM! Bam rhythm nor looked up from the anvil.

Aaron manned the bellows. In seconds, the dying coal faggots had turned from dull red to angry orange. Frederick yanked up the axe blade with his tongs and thrust it into the fire. The fire found it delicious and belched bright sparks in appreciation.

Back on the anvil went the head, and the smith’s massive arm bashed his nine-pound hammer into its victim. Bam! “Can’t be fixed.” Bam! “Might as well pitch it, he says.” Bam! Bam! The smith glared at the head like a demon eyeing a human soul. He growled at an unwelcome bulge and, with vengeance in his heart, punished the sinful iron.

Aaron smiled through the smoke. If Frederick had had an escutcheon, his motto would undoubtedly have been, when in doubt, whack it harder.

Yellow sparks flew at Frederick’s leather apron and stung his rough face. Some landed in his unkempt, graying hair and short-trimmed beard, hissing their final breath. A few more hairs cooked off. He had plenty.

“Enough!” he yelled. Aaron stopped pumping. Bam! “Go to Burdop for a new one.” Bam! “Don’t trouble yourself, he says.” He turned it over. One more Bam! “That’s it. Hah!” He dropped the blade into the water tub and leaned into the erupting steam.

Meriadoc, his nearly-deaf gray mare, snickered from her stall. As a colt, the four-year old had been traded by a farmer named Hindmer for plowshares and rakes. She was used to the banging iron but hissing steam always bothered her. The gray cat that had wandered in during the night and slept at her feet was not botherable.

“I had a hulking dream last night, Frederick.”

“Nice metal. Shame to give up on it. Sharpen this chopper up, Aaron, and get Woodward back hacking down every tree in the shire first thing. May the fir trees forgive me. Grind it good.” He dipped his hands in the tub and, still dripping, stalked out of the barn without another word. Through the entire rebirth of the iron, he had not looked at his nephew.

Aaron pulled out the dripping blade, laid the edge on the stone wheel, and set sparks to flying until its cutting edge begged for mercy. When he was satisfied, he hung the on the front wall with other works of iron and steel: hoes, rakes, chains, and several knives. He stepped outside the barn and sucked in a man-sized breath of the cool, fresh air. The rising sun promised to soar above the village and warm up the mud and the manure piles. Then the village would smell “normal”.

Across the road, Barlow Fletcher’s pink and black sow grunted through a heap of broken pottery, scraps of wood, chicken bones, feathers, clouds of flies, and discarded thatch that lay behind the arrow maker’s home. She was oblivious to his presence—much like Frederick.

The dream. Ellond would know what to do. He knew everything. He gazed blankly down the rutted, mud path that led through the tough little heart of Thorneburcke, toward his mentor’s cottage. Aaron’s head told him to seek him out. His heart said, ‘No’. Pride? Ellond had warned him about that too.

The nightmare had started in the spring as a mere irritation, but with each succeeding visitation, it had grown more vivid and terrifying, pushing him into chaos. In June, a mouse’s chittering was just noise. Now it was language. And this very day his tortured mind had hurled an oak stool across the room at his uncle’s bed. What if Frederick had been in that bed?

Cold, prickly fear flitted through him as it had many times before, like a darting bat on a summer’s night, dark and ungraspable. No matter how he sliced this melon, he was changing, but into what? And why?

CHAPTER 2

The weathered sign above the door of the Cutler’s Shard displayed a broken cutlass and an inscription: EST’d 1348, Asplin Crugg Prop. Upon returning from a journey to plague-infested Italy, the blade maker had abandoned his swords, and his dead and dying shipmates, taking with him a pouch of stolen gold and the ship’s mascot, a mongrel called Hedley. Upon rowing ashore in Sussex, he renamed the dog, Lamar, meaning Of the Sea. The dog died within days and was, fittingly, dumped into the English Channel, but not before sharing his fleas with numerous other creatures, and eventually, most of the country. Crugg, who was innately immune to the virus, journeyed inland until he reached remote Northumberland. The plague came with him and would quickly kill thousands of inhabitants throughout the region, including the innkeeper of Hollinhead on the Boarcragg’s popular Bouser’s Rest public house.

Crugg moved into the deserted tavern and renamed it accordingly. Ironically, Crugg himself died by a highwayman’s blade shortly thereafter, and the tavern’s ownership changed hands yet again. In all the Rede’s Dale, the Shard was known as the last stop in the shadowy lane known as Smuggler’s Alley, the only tippling house in Hollinhead where the dress code included daggers and cutlasses.

The little man who slopped out of the Northumbrian rain and through the Shard’s soot-streaked door appeared as dangerous as an ill-bred kitten. He could have been forty, perhaps sixtty, an oddity in the Shard, for rarely did its clientele survive that long. He pulled the drippy, moss-green hood from his shiny bald head and sauntered around a half-dozen tables to the gouged slab of ancient oak that passed for a bar. A damp, excrement-laced breeze followed him through the entrance. On every table top he passed, a knife or a sword stood upright in front of each of its occupants.

He bellied up to the bar next to a huge man with a fisher’s scaling knife staked in front of him. The stranger pulled a silver-handled dagger from his belt, and stabbed it into the badly splintered counter to attract the attention of the well-rounded barmaid. When she turned, he pulled a silver ha’penny from the leather purse on his belt, enough money for four beakers of ale, and flipped it in her direction. The coin bounced only once on the counter before the fisher’s hand smashed it flat.

The bald man smiled. Oddly, he appeared to have all his teeth.

“Ye best move along, little fella,” the barmaid cackled. She pulled a spider from her long, tangled hair. “This ain’t not no place for the likes of ye. Dickie there might stink you up a bit, ya know. Ye might get hurted.”

“Hah!” The fisher growled with moldy breath, “That be Richard, my dearie Evelyne. Not Dickie.” He scowled at the bald man and dragged the coin toward him.

“Hurtcha? Nah, Dickie, he be good bait for ye.” Evelyne smirked. Her watery, blue eyes blinked.

The old man nodded at the sweaty thief.

“Give her the penny, if you please.”

The fat hand did not move. In a flash, the little man yanked his dagger out of the oak and stabbed it through the back of the fisherman’s hand, pinning it to the wood. The stunned bully stared at the dagger in disbelief as blood seeped from his wound. Smiling warmly, the stranger yanked out the blade and wiped it on the fisher’s sleeve.

Sweet Evelyne made no attempt to stifle her laugh as she handed Dickie a rag. She snatched up the coin, wiped the blood, bit it, and dropped it into the leather purse she kept tied to her belt. With her treasure secured, she turned to less important things.

“Dickie, you best wash that out a bit afore you gets blood in your beaker. Step in back and use me personal trough.”

She patted her bundled hair and smacked a wooden mug on the counter, sloshing warm ale on both men. Dickie dropped the rag and, fearing to take his eyes off his attacker, backed out the rear door. With the kerfuffle over, the other patrons eagerly resumed their drinking. The barmaid picked up the bloody rag and wiped up the brown and red spills on the counter.

The bald man motioned Evelyne to lean closer. She obliged with a giggle, gracing the man with thick scents of rose water. He whispered into her ear, eliciting a broad smile that showed off her brown, crooked teeth. She whispered back, being sure that her lips touched his ear. He nodded and dropped a whole penny into her rough hand, whereupon she held up a finger. Another penny dropped and was immediately deposited into the purse.

The old man turned away from the bar. “Men of the road!” he shouted. They all turned toward him, the euphemism for thief being well known to one and all. “I seek a handful of stout-hearted men, good and true, who will assist me with a task. I pay well.” He sipped his ale as he watched the clusters of manly chatter.

When the noise died away and every head was turned back toward him, he laid his cup back on the counter. “We travel the Whele Fell.”

Shaking heads, snorts and laughter rolled through the inn. Several of the men, however, held his eyes. One in particular, a man with shoulder-length black hair and a long scar on the left side of his stern, unshaven face, glared back at him. His dirty gray shirt and black doublet matched his mood.

“Arbogast,” the bald man said as he reached the table. He smiled not out of friendliness, but because the name was a new one, the latest in a lengthy chain of names which included, among others, Thanatos, Morlach, and his favorite, Bucephalus, which was the name of Alexander the Great’s horse. He straddled the low stool at the defiant one’s table. He set his cup down, then laid his dagger next to it, extending his hands face up, a gesture of peace.

“Plank.” The dark one picked up the dagger and stabbed the table with it, splattering splinters into the air. Gesture refused.

“You know the Fell?”

Plank nodded, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. Like most of the other patrons, the hood of his shirt was down. “I been there a time or two.”

“You do not fear it.” Arbogast closed his eyes as two men stopped behind him. “Sit.”

Two daggers shook the table. The first was planted by a ham-sized fist that belonged to a muscular ox in a brown tunic. A Scottish claymore sword was tucked in his belt. His broad, unsmiling face was scruffy, thin-lipped, and carried several small scars. His auburn hair was clumped in filthy tangles. The second blade, stabbed by a four-fingered hand, belonged to a handsome, stone-faced man. His brown hair barely covered his ears. His left hand, like his right, was missing its index finger. The little man saw intelligence in his gray eyes. Plank and the two men eyed each other like wary mongrels defending a carcass.

“How much?” the ox asked.

“Not yet,” Arbogast responded with a raised finger.

At that moment, the barmaid arrived with a tray holding five beakers of ale. She was followed by two more men: a sturdy gent with short, spiked hair and a saber in his paw. Behind him came a fair-featured willow branch of a young fellow with a blond mop atop his head and a wry smile on his pleasant lips. He had likely never shaved. Evelyne clunked the mugs on the table. As she turned away with a wink, the young man pulled his felt hat off. He pinched her. She promptly slapped him upside the head with the tray and paraded back to the bar with her thick, rosy scent trailing behind her, her ample hips swaying.

The stunned youth yanked his knife. Plank grabbed his arm and shoved him onto a stool. The irate lad turned the blade on Plank and received a fist across the other side of his face from the ox, knocking him to the dirt floor.

Arbogast smiled. “Please sit.”

“Suck a egg!” The young man staggered to his feet. Growling and dizzy from the bludgeoning, he yanked off his dirty, green kerchief and wiped a streak of blood from his cheek.

Arbogast wiggled a finger and the young rebel fell onto the stool as though he had been pushed. “That will be enough of that,” said the old man. “If you behave, you may move. Nod your noggin north and south.” The young man sat rigidly. “Take me not for a molloncolly madman, master Gripe. That was not a request.”

Gripe’s neck creaked, then locked up. His face contorted in pain, as he struggled to tilt it forward. His oaken stance instantly turned to pudding. He shook his head, which only made the pain worse. The other men at the table seemed to enjoy it.

“Gentlemen, call me Arbogast.”

Gripe snickered

He glared at the young man “You will take me seriously, Gripe. Should you fail to obey me, I shall kill you.” The men fell silent. The smiles evaporated.

“A question, if you please,” said the stone-face.

Arbogast nodded. “Simon.”

Simon slapped the table. “That is a good trick there, what with dancing Gripe here. There be five mugs you ordered from Mistress Quickly before we even come over. How did you know we five would enlist?”

The old man shrugged.

“A good guesser, eh? I wager you do well at Acey-ducey card games. So now that we all be mates, Georgie, introduce yourself.” He slapped the red-headed Scot’s arm.

“Georgie.” His face was gouged, as if it had been carved with a dull knife.

“Spencer,” said the Welshman, rolling his blood-shot eyes. Forsaking his knife, he stabbed his saber deep into the table, nearly penetrating it. The beakers shook violently, slopping over. Then he sat. “I be mighty thirsty,” he barked, pointing at the mug in front of him. All the men drank and Arbogast signaled Evelyne for another round.

Plank drained his cup and wiped his mouth. Without asking, he pulled Gripe’s knife out of its sheath and stuck it. “The job. If it isn’t too much trouble.” His eyes were dark and deep. Were it not for the scars, he might have been handsome.

Arbogast rubbed the blue kerchief that covered his neck, and turned toward the sulking Gripe. “You may speak, should you desire to do so.”

“I gots nothin’ ta say, but ‘ow nice o’ ya to ask.”

Arbogast reached beneath his damp tunic, pulled out a leather pouch, and dropped it on the table. The willow branch, who was feeling less pain after a stiff drink, hefted the purse, then peeped inside. “Gold.” He smiled as he slapped away a fly that was trying to crawl up his nose.

The ox bellowed, “Lemme see that, Gripe.” He grabbed the sack. “Gotta be a pound.” He dropped the bag in front of Georgie, a slightly smaller version of the Welshman. “Where it come from?”

“I made it.”

The brigands stared at the old man. Plank grabbed his dagger and laid the blade at Arbogast’s throat, breaking the mood. His face was as tight as death. “I asked you once. Perhaps I should slit your neck and just take it. None o’ these lads will mind a little blood on the floor. Now, what is the job?”

Arbogast raised a hand to the blade edge and gently pushed it toward the table. Plank fought to hold the knife steady, but his fist drifted down as gently as a goose feather.

The old man raised a finger. “Do you wish to hear me out?”

Plank lifted a finger, then another. The other men shot anxious glances back and forth. Then they lifted their blades and stabbed the innocent wood once again.

“You are being reasonable. I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse.” His voice was little more than a whisper, barely audible over the buzzing tipplers.

The ox leaned forward. “What you want in the Fell? Spirits? Plague? Dragons?”

Evelyne arrived with a tray. She leaned over Gripe’s shoulder, being careful to rub her arm against it, and placed six dripping tankards on the puddled table. After Arbogast paid her, she again leaned over Gripe and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she sauntered away.

“You in love again?” Spencer asked.

“Aye. True love,” Gripe grinned.

“Aye. I knows but one way to go an’ that be ahead. Just stay out of me way,” barked Georgie with a heavy, Scottish brogue.

“Simple ’ere be a sea crab,” Gripe burped, pointing at Spencer. “Carracks and Galleons, eh? I be in.”

“Gunner’s mate,” Simple boasted.

A kerfuffle erupted near the entrance. The patrons all turned as a surly gent who was missing his right arm, picked himself off the floor and stumbled into the door, banging his head. He rolled to his knees, then vomited before passing out. Their curiosity sated, the men returned to their business.

Arbogast turned toward Plank. “To your question, Sir Neville.”

Plank’s face hardened.

“Sir Neville is it now?” Simple chuckled. “We be honored.”

Plank ignored him. “You know a bit about us, I gather this meeting is not entirely random.”

“Our meeting is not entirely random, as you said. I know of Sir—Plank.” He nodded at the former knight. “And I know of Simon Hawke.”

Simon’s face darkened.

“‘e wants you to capture a maiden’s ‘eart,” Gripe crowed. “Then eat it.”

Arbogast raised a hand. “To the job lads. Is it aye or nay?”

Plank searched the men’s faces. “Aye. All in.”

“You have sealed your oath. What do you know of the Fell?”

Georgie cleared his throat. “Our gracious King Richard—may his ears fall off—calls it the forbidden place.”

“What be that?” Gripe said.

“Ain’t not no bodies livin’ there,” Georgie answered.

Gripe stuck out his tongue.

Plank leaned forward. “Ain’t nobody live there for Georgie’s folk keep runnin’ across the border and killin’ fine English citizens.”

Gripe rolled his eyes and lifted his mug.

Plank harrumphed. “Even if King Richard himself did not forbid his folk from going into the Fell, only a dicked-in-the-nob Prig would risk it. Aye. I been to some parts. Me and our glorious King, who should be eaten by a whale, sometimes disagree.”

“And no soldiers, so it be quiet,” Georgie offered.

“To quiet,” Simon said. He raised his cup.

Dickie the fisher emerged from the back with his hand wrapped in a piece of dirty gray cloth, grateful that the dagger had missed all his bones. His beaker awaited him at the bar. He tucked the throbbing hand inside his doublet and tuned in to Arbogast’s blathering with the rag-tags at the table, wondering how it would feel to break the old man’s neck.

“Ain’t not safe,” Gripe growled.

Arbogast grinned. “You fear the puck?”

Simple slapped the table and smiled, showing his gray teeth. “Aye, the puck, the trickster ‘isself. I ain’t no dumb noddy. I does not wish to become a ripe turnip or a stinkin’ weasel.”

“Aye,” Georgie blurted. “And the spirits o’ the dead tarry there. They can suck yer brains out yer ears. Devils they be.”

“And the dragon,” Simple blurted through a wide smile.

“Hah!” Gripe swirled a finger about an ear.

“Take a care,” said Simple. “I heared of it from a fella who knew a gent, who heard of a fella what seen it.”

“And the dragon.” Every eye turned toward Plank. His eyes stared blankly at the table, as though recalling a dream.

“You have seen such a beast,” Arbogast said.

“No.”

“Yet you believe they exist.”

Plank sighed. “I knew a man, Sir Basil Camden, a knight of the oath. We fought together. Our lives waged for the sake of a hollow, golden crown. Like me, he fell on hard times. He hired out to cut a dame’s throat somewhere in the Fell.” Plank fell silent, then continued in a hushed voice, his eyes unfocused. “He met the beast there. It was stumblin’ about like it could barely walk. It killed one of his mates, crushed him like a toad. Then it ate up the wench. His other mate fled like a coward. It came after Camden. Had him pinned. Then it burned him.”

Gripe’s face paled.

“I run across him three years later. Half his face and most of his body was scorched.” Gripe slid his stool back. Holding his mouth, he scurried out into the rain.

“He be a nice lad,” Georgie said, coughing. “First the puck, then the ghoulies and ghosties, now the longie-legged beasties. I never seed none of ‘em. Yer daft, the lot o’ ya.”

“Have a care with your jest,” Arbogast warned. “Have you ever seen a whale?”

Georgie shrugged. “Not many in the highlands.”

“Simple, you’re a seafarer.”

“Aye. Seed more than man can count.”

“That makes it more than one,” Gripe crowed, ducking back into his seat, his stomach apparently emptied.

Simple leaned toward Gripe. “Swallow you whole, they will. I seed a whale fish’s tail plunder so hard it cracked the ship in halfses. Then she swims about us for the rest o’ the day, just so we knew who done it.” He sucked on his tankard. 

“Did you drown?” Gripe asked.

“Aye. Three times.” He belched. “My moby was dicked that day, I tells ya.”

“The Burcke, I believe you call it. Is that correct, Simon?” Arbogast asked.

“Why are you asking me?”

“That’s your home, is it not?”

“Was.”

“Fairly spoken. There’s a young man in the Burcke. He interests me.”

“So?”

“His name is Aaron Hawke.”

“Hawke?”

“He lives with your brother.”

“The old sledgehammer jumped the sword, eh?” Simon scraped his fingertips on the table.

“No. He adopted the lad. His father is a mystery.”

Plank raised a foot and crushed a slow-moving centipede into the dirt floor. Then he leaned forward. “And the mother?”

“I believe she is dead,” he muttered. Arbogast fingered the blade of Plank’s knife. It was a knight’s dagger. The silver pommel was a small molded escutcheon with a diagonal bar. He leaned closer to look at the coat of arms. It held a tiny lion, en rampant¸ a sun, and a chevron.

“If we do this,” Plank said, “we earn our bread.” He pulled the knife away.

“I am sure you will.” Arbogast motioned at the bag. “Consider this a retainer. When your work is done, I will give each of you a pound of gold.” The men collectively inhaled at the mention of the staggering sum, more than they could ever see in a lifetime. Gripe’s knife tipped and fell to the table top with a thud. “So, we are agreed?”

Five Ayes agreed about the table.

“And when we find this Hawke,” Plank asked.

Arbogast made a tent of his fingers and slowly raised the tips to his lips, glancing from face to curious face. “That depends. You may be called upon to kill.”

None protested.

“There it is.”

Dickie the fisher was not the brightest candle in the chapel, but his hearing was passable. He hadn’t caught all of it, but the Burcke and kill were clear enough. He quickly exited the ale house, leaving his half-emptied beaker for Evelyn’s eager lips.

CHAPTER 3

The village of Thorneburcke had seen little change in more than a century. Its narrow, rutted roads, lanes, and garbage-strewn alleys linked nearly a hundred and fifty rustic cottages, a handful of shoppes and an ancient church. Being near the end of a rutty trail which ended a few miles past its boundaries, the village saw few visitors. Commerce was centered on the necessities of life, most of which were derived from the fields and forests that lay on three sides of the town, and the Read River that ran past it. The only vendor with regular customers in other villages was known as Golfrith the tale monger.

Martha, Golfrith’s old gray mare, easily pulled the two-wheeled cart through the mud of the Tanner’s Lane, while the tired brown colt tied to the back could barely lift its skinny legs out of the muck and mire.

The jolly goods monger, bona fide traveler, and purveyor of poesy, picked a hungry nit from the gray beard that framed his round face, then another from his dangling hair. He flipped them into the mud, there to perish, it was to be hoped. Noting the trespassers’ landings, he returned to his singing.

“The stout Earl of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,

His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summers days to take;

The chiefest deer in Chevy-Chase

To kill and bear away:

These tidings to Earl Douglas came,

In Scotland where he lay.”

He passed the village green and paused to sip from a gouged flask of ale that he kept on his belt. With his thirst sated, he glanced at the ivy-covered, oaken pillory with its rusted irons that had stood on the narrow lane in the middle of the Burcke for longer than anyone could recall.

A mockingbird mocked him from the overhanging boughs of a pine.

“Old chimes and old rhymes give us think of old times, dear mocker.” The mocker whistled back at him.

“Who sent Erie Percy present word,

He would prevent his sport;

The English Earl not fearing that,

Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bow-men bold,

All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well in time of need

To aim their shafts arright.”

The ballad was the sad tale of the 1388 battle of Otterburn, which lay some twelve miles to the south and east of the Burcke. The disastrous fight had claimed the lives of a dozen local villagers among the thousands of Englishmen vainly sacrificed by the Earl of Northumberland, Henry Percy, who was called Bolingbroke.

He turned onto the South Road that ran through the heart of the Burcke and spied Freeman hacking meat outside his butchery. His gray woolen sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, leaving plenty of room for blood spatters. The butcher raised his huge hand and bloody cleaver in greeting, then quickly returned to the lamb shank on his table.

Golfrith waved back. “How goes it at the shambles?”

“Muscle and bone. Muscle and bone,” Freeman bellowed.

Just then, young Madeline Bowyer turned around the corner of the Cock and Bull inn. She was carrying her basket laden with fresh eggs for Fern Thornburn to sell. But oddly, this morning she was accompanied by her father Geoffrie, who rarely came to town this early. Geoffrie hailed the vendor, who reined in Martha, rubbed his round nose, and adjusted his chronically stiff legs.

As usual, the squinty eyes of the grizzled, heavy-handed farmer were dull. He seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his broad shoulders as he handed a small leather purse to the traveler, along with terse words of instruction. His task ended, he wiped his face with the green kerchief he wore about his neck, tucked it into a dirty, rear pocket. Nodding, he turned and stalked back across the road and into the inn.

The moment her father was out of her sight, the young woman turned to Golfrith and smiled, eliciting a sigh from the tale monger. Even in the overcast morning light her blue eyes sparkled.

“How fare ye, fair Madeline?” Golfrith asked with all the gallant resonance he could achieve. The lovely, ginger-haired maiden was dressed accordingly in green woolen dress. The only flesh the fifteen-year old displayed were her hands and head. She gracefully curtsied and blew him a kiss. He caught the coquettish offering, and tucked it inside his shirt along with her father’s purse. “I see you wear your mother’s cross. A bonny delight it is,” he purred.

A teasing smile crossed her lips. She winked and lifted the bent silver cross by its chain. She waggled it at him and tucked it into her bosom. She then turned and headed up to the Miller’s Lane, toward the shop of Wylie Stubbins the baker to do some egg trading of her own.

With his curious eyes fixed on the lovely young lady, the gimpy tale monger squeezed the purse through his shirt, relishing the feel of the unyielding coins. Satisfied, he slapped the reins to wake up Martha, who had become bored. He ambled past Busker’s Alley and he saw the dagger-mates kneeling in the dampish dirt, gaming with dice.

“Fare thee well, laddies,” he crowed. The colt snickered.

Aaron popped up from the game, losing his balance as a dragon’s visage flashed before his eyes, then vaporized. He took a deep breath and hurried to the cart, where he reached up and grasped an offered hand.

“Damp enough for you, master babbler?”

“Damp enough? Never have I ever seen such a season of wet, except on my sail to the Australia where the natives walk upside down and breathe water. Verily, ‘tis Poseidon hisself what tosses the oceans into the very air only to spit upon my fair head.”

“And such a fair head it is. A fop’s tongue, yet a fair head. Forget not my sharpening stone and fare thee fair,” Aaron chirped as he adjusted his linen cap.

Golfrith shook his head to discourage a spider that was crawling over his ear. “Done. Master Hawke, you appear weary. May I bring you some fine shire wine upon my return?”

“I didn’t sleep well, and I’d rather chew a pine cone than drink shire wine.”

“Drink? Nay. I thought you could use it to remove rust, or even the mud on your knees. Perchance, can you talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain?”

Aaron stuck out his tongue.

Grinning, the tale monger leaned forward. “Lend an ear, lad. Young Madeline be a spritely lass. Is she not?”

Aaron smiled. “That she is.”

“I’ve heard that she is frequently unruly.”

“I can vouch for that.”

“I thought so. I think Geoffrie knows not what to do with her, she being nearly an old woman and not yet taken. He will speak not of her mother, may she rest with the angels. Do you have acquaintance with such things, other than her elfish spirit, that may seem oddly strange?”

“Such as?”

“I hear she has a special way with animals.”

“I can vouch for that,” Tobias Ffortie yelled. The yellow-haired candlemaker rose from his knees and flipped the dice over his shoulder to Madrych Jennings, who rolled his eyes in mock resignation. The shoemaker was quite used to Toby’s eagerness to discuss fair Madeline at every opportunity. Tobias swiped at the mud on his brown, woolen pants and trotted to the cart. The young Hawke, who would rather eat worms than chat about “special ways” with animals, turned toward his friend and pasted a smile on his face as Toby bumped into him.

“Aye, she has a jollity with animals, especially roasted.”

The men roared. Golfrith, who had taught Toby the joke, laughed the loudest. Even the usually stoic Madrych smiled. Aaron’s icy pulse melted as the traveler tapped Ffortie atop his wool cap and complimented him on his jest.

“What’s with the pony?” Toby asked, squinting through the fringes of the thick, bowl-cut yellow hair that nearly covered his blue eyes.

“Poope’s pup. Taking him to Burd Drop to vend him.”

“He’s about the right size for you, Fartie!” yelled Madrych.

Toby stretched up to his full height, and hacked up a wad of spit, which he launched at the madman. The glob struck Madrych’s boot. “Still the best spitter in the Burcke,” he crowed. Madrych laughed. The insult had been returned, for that’s what dagger-mates do.

Golfrith leaned down and winked. “I hear Chaucer may have a new writing, something about Canterbury.”

“Yo!” yelled Madrych as he stood to stretch his legs. “Iron-banger, candle-waxer, melon-headed muff, you’re showing a goose! The cubes await your toad-eating paws!” A year older than Aaron, and every bit as tall, the father-to-be was afraid of nothing, not even his mother- in-law. For despite her constant pleas for him to wear his thick, brown hair longer, he kept it sliced short, mostly to annoy her. Arwen, his wife of nearly two years, loved the game as much as did her parents, and that was enough reason for it to continue.

Aaron stiffened. “Hold, Sir Madman!”

The smith and the chandler saluted the carter in farewell, then turned to resume their gaming with the shoemaker. The pair had taken no more than a step when another voice interrupted them.

“Ho, the monger!” Albert Chapman turned the corner and approached the group. Mud had spattered half way up his short legs. His wrinkled face was set in a broad smile.

Golfrith heaved a theatrical sigh. “I wager I shall be a moment.” He stretched out his hand. “Grab a hold, Tobias, and help this ancient fart from off his cart.” Toby grabbed the hand. Golfrith swung his stiff legs onto the mounting strap and creaked to the ground. As he thumped to the dirt, his wool cap fell off and his round belly shook from the impact.

“Sorry,” Chapman said. He recovered the cap and placed it atop Golfrith’s tilted, graying head. “I had to get Maudie out of my hair.” He lifted his own cap and rubbed his scalp, which was bare save for a fringe of gray. “And ‘tis a bit of a challenge these days.” The men laughed. Chapman handed the traveler a small leather purse. Looking inside, Golfrith’s eyes twinkled.

“Maudie’s silver chain went missing.”

“So I hear,” Golfrith added. “A spiflicating, sidyledywried shame. Taken from your very sack beneath your very floor of your very home.”

“Aye. Tipped and taken. Who would pilfer it?”

“Or what rat could even get at it?” Aaron asked. An image of a rat chewing on the necklace skipped through him. His spine tickled like a caterpillar had lodged in it.

“I hear the good folk of Thorneburcke have sought it hither, thither, and elsewhere,” Golfrith added.

“Get her a new one,” Chapman said. “And tell no man lest your tongue be mine. Young masters, you are sealed. Especially you, my fine son-in-the-law. Bark not this dog’s issue to your beautiful wife.” Madrych kissed a forefinger and tapped his heart. The promise was sealed. Toby and Aaron nodded somberly, fighting the urge to laugh. Golfrith tied up the purse and dropped it inside his shirt to rest next to his belly with that of Bowyer, as well as the proffered kiss.

“Albie Chapman, you have a heart as good as gold. And it grows the greater as you grow old. For Maud and love and Cupid’s gain, I shall find for you a silver chain.”

The young men let loose a boisterous “Huzzah! “

Albert’s face turned red. “Nobody ever poefied me afore.”

“It’s my honor to be the first,” said Golfrith. “Now lads, help this crusty old scapegrace, this hoddy-doddy, back atop his royal barge that he may sail the boisterous lanes and brave the stormy forest to put to port upon the shores of Burdop by the Read, to go where only heroes dare, and lade his ship with golden wares, and drink to comely maidens fair. To ‘scape the devil’s stinky lair and breathe the mist of heaven’s air. Again, fare thee well, and may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows ye be dead.”

Aaron and Toby helped Golfrith to climb back aboard his cart. With a snap of the reins, Martha lurched forward, her wide hooves slopping in the mud.

“Sparrow, I thought you was going to scuttle over to Ellond’s place,” said Toby as they returned to the game.

“I saw Hubble go in,” Aaron replied. “He was limping.”

Aaron patted his talisman, the frayed, gray cat lying beside him. The cat, who was accustomed to the strange one’s yammering, yawned as two robins, a male and his mate landed on a branch in the aspen tree above the game to chirp their heavenly carols. Seeing they were out of his reach, he returned his head to his paws and again closed his eyes.

“Quarter, for a chance,” said Madrych Jennings as he pitched a quartered silver penny to the ground. It landed heads-up, displaying King Richard’s right eye, an ear, and a bit of his royal crown.

“Challenge the frumbler,” Ffortie exclaimed, tossing in his cut coin.

“Aye,” Aaron added. “Roll the devils and face my wrath. And no spittin’.”

Toby laid his hand across his chest. “And let the fiend of the Fell curse your pips.”

Aaron and Toby crowed in unison: “Firefrorefiddle, the fiend of the Fell. Hear our plea, we ask you twice. Foul the madman and curse his dice!”

Madrych huffed. “Pay attention. You can observe a lot just by watching.” He blew softly into his fist, said a prayer to the gambling gods, and lofted the dice into the air. They plopped to the wet dirt: An ace and a deuce. “Aye!” He picked up the sliced coins one at a time, and kissed them. He then nodded toward his kneeling comrades. “We thank thee, thou beggars born.”

“One more for me. I got to get to my labors,” said Toby. “I got candles to dip.”

“And me,” Aaron added. “There be rough-hewn blades awaiting the master’s fist.”

“Very well, thou russet-topped servant of Vulcan, to war.” With a cunning grin on his handsome face, Madrych passed the dice and each of the young men tossed a quartered penny to the dirt.

The visiting birds were stunned to silence. They had crossed paths with humans, but had never heard one speak their tongue. They didn’t know a master’s fist from a fir tree, but the red-topped one had spoken bird.

With a wry smile on his lips, Aaron rolled the dice slowly around his palm.

“Roll the bones, candle-waster.” Toby punched his arm. “All your reading won’t help you now.”

“Please. The dice speak sweet prayers to me.”

“Aye. They say you have lost this fair day. So fare thee well to your coin.”

“As you like it.” Aaron flipped the dice. He nodded his head as the cubes came to rest. “Ace and Ace.”

Madrych blurted, “What cunning have you thrown?”

“This is cankered,” Toby added.

“None but my bone-bred skill.” As Aaron reached for the coins, Madrych punched his leg, but he refused to blink, despite the pain. The skeptical cat yawned.

“What do we do?” the female bird chirped.

“Safe here.”

“Must go. It hear us.”

“Matter not. Can not fly.”

“Sure?”

The male cocked his head at his mate in disbelief. “I feel a snitch come.”

“No.”

“Must.”

Aaron smiled as the birds took to wing. The male passed overhead and squirted out a large white glob. Having overheard the tweeters, he glanced up and, with his thoughts, altered the trajectory of the plummeting insult toward Madrych’s bare head. The resulting curses were drowned out by his and Toby’s heartfelt, sympathetic laughter.

“That be a good one, aw right.” Dickie the fisher clapped Madrych on the back with one stinking hand and wiped his nose with the other, which was wrapped in a foul-smelling, blood-stained linen.

Toby asked, “I thought you was going to get that looked after two weeks ago.”

“What? This?” This be nothin’. Like I told ya. It’s just caught a grapple in me paw whilst I were visitin’ me brother down in Hole-in-head, down by the bore-crack. A loosy woodward he is. I washed it up a bit and Maudie dumped some of that green pigwash Ellond makes. I be on my way to his book-ship’s place now. Me nets needs two strong hands to pull.”

“Hubble’s in there.”

“No, he ain’t not. I just seen him hobblin’ back to his house.”

“Then let us not hold you up,” Madrych said.

Dickie turned away. Toby grabbed his throat and pretended to gag himself.

Aaron’s eyes glazed as a strange feeling crept through him.

“Hey, sparrow,” Toby said. “You were going to see Ellond, after you lost your pennies. Old Carpie there gonna get him first.”

Aaron’s eyes were still riveted on Dickie. He felt queered, like he did when Frederick was about to lecture him. Only this time, it was a new voice humming inside his head.

“I have to open the shoppe,” blurted Madrych. “Got some boots to finish today. Hey, Sparrow, why are you so smoky?”

“He was lying.”

Madrych shook his head. “And you know this how?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Daft,” said Toby whirling a finger about his ear. “What has he got to lie about?”

“Right, Fartie,” replied Aaron. “It’s not as if he was stabbed by a little old man.”

CHAPTER 4

Three penny chunks. Two of the three slices were of the king’s left side: an ill omen. Yet Aaron couldn’t help but smile as he fingered the silver. In a few days Golfrith would be coming back loaded with salt, dyes, copper, whale oil, honey, books, his bucket of tales, a silver necklace (it was to be hoped), and of course, a sharpening stone, which could now be paid for.

Nearing Ellond’s cottage, he saw that the shutters were drawn and grey smoke curled out of the fire hole in the top of the thatched roof. As he traipsed through the gap in the stone wall, a horrifying shriek erupted from within. He steeled his resolve and pushed open the door.

Dickie lay moaning on a blanket on the floor with a leather strap clamped in his jaws His crazed eyes seemed ready to pop out of his skull, while Ellond stood next to the flaming fire pit that held a boiling cauldron and a snarling iron rod.

Ellond turned. “What took you so long? Get over here and hold his arm. Now.”

Aaron stepped over several jars of unknown content and a puddle of blood. He knelt. With his left hand, he clamped hold of the bad arm. With his right, he grappled the opposing shoulder.

Ellond reached into a bowl of stinking brown and green mush. When his dripping hand came out, Aaron noticed a dead bug stuck to the glob. “You got a fly in the ointment,” he croaked, barely able to breathe.

Ellond coughed and flicked the fly away, then he smeared the wound. Dickie jerked, but he could not break the smith’s grip. The injury was red and swollen, as if it had been boiled. Aaron realized that it probably had been.

“Loosen your fist,” Ellond ordered. Nothing happened. “Dickie,” he repeated softly, “loosen your fist and relax.” The hand unclenched as if by magic. The huge body fell soft.

“Hold tight, lad.” Ellond donned a thick leather glove. He pulled the red-hot rod from the fire pit beneath the cauldron of boiling water and laid it onto the back of the hand. Dickie thrashed, screaming through the strap that bound his mouth. Ellond caught a flailing foot in his belly and doubled over. But with a grip he wouldn’t relent, Aaron held the fisherman’s shoulders tightly to the floor until the screaming had softened to piteous moans.

“Over!” Ellond ordered.

Aaron flipped the hand, palm up. Ellond applied the rod to the other side of the wound. Dickie stiffened. His head jerked up, then he fell limp as if he had breathed his last. Ellond removed the rod and inspected the hand. His usually handsome face sagged as if he had aged far beyond the thirty-five years he claimed. His woolen pants and shirt were smeared with blood and slime. His socks had fallen to the top of his worn shoes.

“Wake him up. Get some ale while I wash.” He crossed to the cleaning tub and dunked his hands. Aaron followed, noticing his mentor’s personal cabinet was open. It was dark and spacious, with its shelves holding bottles, jars, and flagons. The heavy iron lock, which he claimed to have found in Italy, lay on the side board with its huge iron key. Aaron Hawke was no carpenter, but he would have bet the cabinet could withstand the weight of a shire horse.

With his hands still dripping, Ellond rolled down his sleeves. He removed a blue metal flask, popped off the stopper, and swigged a bit of the content. Replacing the flask, he shut the door, then reset the lock.

Aaron grabbed the ale jug and a cup and hurried back to Dickie, who had rejoined the living.

A different Ellond returned to his patient. This one was erect, his bright brown eyes shining. His clean-haven face was firm and smiling as he wiped his hands on his brown linen shirt. Even his streaked brown hair looked brighter. After Dickie finished his second beaker of ale, he trudged his way home with a clean bandage and orders to avoid fishing for a couple days. Aaron doubted that would actually occur.

Aaron swiped a finger across a green glob and held it to his nose. His eyes dimmed. Ellond quickly took a rag to his hand and wiped off the “medicine”. He then threw the rag into the dying fire, which quickly sprang back to life and devoured its meal.

“You know better,” Ellond declared.

“What was that awful stuff?”

“A cleanser for the wound. It was pretty bad. Of course, I had to dip it in boiling water first.”

“Aye. It smells like stewed manure.”

“I meant the hand was bad. That ‘manure’ is a strong cleaner: Kingswort, mistletoe, mulberry extract, sulfur, mouse-grass, frog-cheese, snakes-tongue, some herbs, and boiled pig urine.”

He waved Aaron to the work table in the rear corner near his bookshelves, across the floor from his bed. It was strewn with the usual sea of paper: three short stacks of leather-bound books, a roll of what appeared to be papyrus, and a dozen or so random pages with various incoherent characters, textures, smudginess, and fraying.

Aaron pointed at one of the pages in an open book. “I remember the pyramid and the camel, and I still think you made them up. What kind of snake is this?”

“Cobra.”

He pointed at the bottom of the page. “What are those clacky things?”

“Those are hieroglyphics, Egyptian writing. This one is life. This one is Anubis. He watches over the dead. These three wavy lines are water, likely the Nile.”

“Why does Anubis have such a long nose?”

“That’s a jackal head. Anubis always looks like that.”

“And I thought Wylie Stubbins had a big nose.” His eyes glazed over as he eyed the cobra. “I hate snakes. Madrych’s sister died from an adder bite. She was only three. One got me, too.”

“I remember. This chap is quite another thing. While our adder is poisonous, it is rarely lethal for an adult. As I recall, yours was just under two feet long. Your average cobra grows to six feet. Some can reach ten. Even a baby’s bite will kill you in minutes.”

“The pyramid looks so small in the drawing. And what’s special about a pile of rock? We have one.”

“Thorneburcke’s pillar is three-by-three and as tall as you. This pyramid is larger than the tower of London.”

Aaron could only shake his head. He was drawn to Ellond like a nail to a magnet. He had been everywhere a man could go and he knew anything a man could know, all within the space of a single lifetime. And having sat under his tutelage for his entire life, Aaron believed no man could really know him, such was the awe with which he was held. Even now, he stood directly in front of him wearing his I know what you think smile.

“Bad night?”

As usual, Ellond knew everything.

CHAPTER 5

Arbogast!

Aaron’s eyes rolled up as a single word pierced his thoughts. He grabbed the table to keep from being spun to the floor. Then, as quickly as the fit had hit him, it was over.

“Is it worse?” Ellond asked absently, as if his mind were elsewhere. “I have some flax you can chew. It may help.”

His murky brain whirled with strange images: a bald man, swords and knives stuck into table tops, a bloody penny. Then he felt Ellond’s fingertips on his temple and the images disappeared.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I asked if your head was worse.”

“You said Arbogast.”

Ellond frowned. his eyes narrowed to slits. “You heard me say Arbogast?”

“Aye.”

“Hmmph. Did I say anything else?”

“Something about a cutler and a campment.”

“Oh. I guess I forgot.”

“You forgot? I thought I’d never live to see this day.”

“Gloat not, worm tongue. Some day you too will be aged and of foul-puked mind. Dickie was cursing out every cutler on the island for his wound. But I think the other was something about being threatened by an archer with a crossbow.”

“Which would explain the encampment,” Aaron added. The explanation was logical, but it felt creepy, like Dickie’s lie. He had always believed Ellond to be above other men, incapable of lying. Perhaps he was human after all. Or was it something else?

“Sit. You don’t look all that whole yet, a bit melancholy, too. I have some thistle root I can boil up. Should cheer you up.”

“Pass.”

“Better?”

“Gone. Like shutting a door.”

“Worry not. This is the change we spoke of. The dizzies, this confusion, it will pass. Now stand.”

Ellond placed the ale jug on his table. He looked about, then wiggled a finger and the stopper rose from the floor and dove into the jug hole. He then rested a fingertip on the side of the lad’s neck.

“How can you feel my heart on my neck?”

“Your blood captures the beat of your heart. I can feel it pounding.”

“You flummer me. What does it prove? I know I live.”

“A good heart beats like dum-da-dum-da-dum. My heart does not. Here.” He took the young man’s hand and pulled it to his own neck. “Press lightly.”

Aaron felt as mad as a March hare. This was the kind of jest Fartie would pull on him. But this man never jested. Then he felt the jagged beat.

Ellond nodded. “What did you feel?”

“It’s not regular. It feels more like dum-da-da-dum-da-dum. That’s your heart?”

“Your heart is like that of a young bull. Mine isn’t.” He pulled a tin flask from his belt and sipped the brew. His eyes grew even brighter. “Check me now.”

Aaron placed two finger tips on the man’s neck. “Dum-da-dum-da-dum. “That stuff is amazing. What’s in there? How do you make it?”

“Magic. Now tell me about the dragon.” He wasn’t smiling.

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

“Not much.”

“Is Dickie going to be all right? He looked pretty sore.”

“He should have come sooner. He may lose his hand. The good news is the dagger was nice and sharp and it missed every bone, almost as if it was planned that way. Maybe in a week or so, we will know. Tell me about the dragon,” he said absently.

“I talked with a mouse this morning,” Aaron babbled, realizing Ellond’s mind was elsewhere. “Actually, it was about three weeks ago, and her name was Abigail. She thinks I’m cute. My head fell off and I had to nail it back on. I flang my boot and a stool across the room—no hands. Nearly got my head taken off by a flying candle and I got tallow marks to prove it. When does it end?”

“Soon. At times, you will feel as if your head is flying. You will hear other voices, strange ones. That name. What was it again?”

“Arbogast.”

“Strange voices, like that.”

“I lost control. What if that boot had been a knife? I could have killed Frederick.”

“Tell me about the dragon.”

CHAPTER 6

The wolf licked the last sweet smudges of the old rabbit’s blood from her gray snout as the sun crawled into the sky. Her heart beat still echoed in her head, a common occurrence these days. Even a short chase now left her winded, her legs stiff and aching. With a final glance at the glob of red-streaked fur, she hobbled through the cool, pre-dawn mist to a patch of clover where she laid down to recover her strength.

***

You will feel as if your head is flying. You will hear voices.

Ellond’s words echoed in Hawke’s ears. He leaned against the rustic stone pillar as his eyes blurred for an instant.

Toby squatted nearby in the shade near the pillory, peering at the side of the road. “You okay there, Sparrow?” He spat at an ant hill, hitting it dead center.

“Just admiring your skill. If I ever need someone to slobber on my whetstone, you will get the job.”

“Admire should you wish, varlet. Such art, should it be with your lips or your bow, shall you never equal.”

“I trudge in awe of you, oh great one.”