The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (7 page)

“No sir. No, I just—”

“Then how do you intend to make amends for all of this?” the Priest demanded.

The other groomsmen quickly moved their horses from the square, leading them to the stable and praying that the wrath Cal was about to incur would not be unleashed upon their hides as well. Only Michael stayed, bridle in hand and a pale horse at his side. He cringed for his friend as he watched the shaming scene unfold before him.

The lieutenant replied, “Perhaps a public lashing is in order. Let us see if he stands as still underneath the whip of justice as he did amidst the chaos of the square.”

“Hmmm,” sneered the Priest, “that would teach him a lesson in duty under pressure, but what about the losses, and panic … the
timber
?” he asked, pausing for effect as he made a gesture for those present to come close and listen to his judgment upon this careless young man.

“I have a better idea, Lieutenant,” the Priest said as a sickening smile crept across his bearded face. “It would seem to me that the THREE who is SEVEN is in need of
res-ti-tu-tion
to atone for such failure and folly!” He spoke slowly and deliberately to add weight to his already harsh words.

“I order you, apprentice groomsman, to the northern forests. You and your bloodied horse will pull the carts and serve the axes of the real defenders of light, until the Priest King Jhames himself hears word of your atonement,” the Priest said as he pointed with his flint-adorned scepter at the young man standing in the center of the square.

“Lieutenant, you may inform the young man of his new assignment,” said the Priest.

Lieutenant Marcum stared at the young man. Where once only anger and rage lived in his gaze, now something more akin to compassion filled his eyes. “The lad deserves a lashing, but banishment to the North, my Priest? Is that not a bit severe?” asked the lieutenant. “I happen to know that this is one of the most skilled groomsman that has ever been under the Citadel’s command, and—”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Priest. “Skilled you say? I do not see where his skills came to our aid on this dark day, do you?”

Lieutenant Marcum could not come up with a satisfactory response, for it was true that the young groomsman had done nothing to restrain the reckless horse in his care.

“Perhaps I should hold
you
accountable for his restitution then?” the Priest said sarcastically.

“No …” said Marcum with a sigh. “No, I see that this is a just ruling, to be sure. I’ll send word to the master groomsman right away and inform him of his apprentice’s new assignment.”

The Priest nodded, accepting the apology of the lieutenant in the most dramatic of ways before returning to the ledgers and accounts of the timber rations.

Michael stared in shocked silence. He had just witnessed his closest friend, his brother really, banished to the dark forests of the cold North. His heart began to break, but the decision had been made and there was no reversing it. Michael and his pale horse turned and slowly made their way back to the stable yard, walking with heads hung low and leaving the bewildered and bloodied mess of the square behind them.

Chapter Seven

C
al
stood with Dreamer’s reins in his hands, hearing the weight of the words of the Priest and feeling the accusatory stares of all who looked on.

When the Priest turned to leave, the young lieutenant came and spoke in Cal’s ear. “Son, you heard the Priest. Tomorrow morning you leave for Piney Creek, and you might be there for some time, so make sure you say your farewells.”

“Tomorrow?” Cal protested.

The lieutenant stopped him from further objection.

“Get this …
horse
… cleaned up,” he said with contempt in his voice. “You leave first thing tomorrow.” With that he took his leave, signaling there was to be no more discussion of the matter.

Cal and Dreamer walked with heads hung low towards the main stable yard, defeated by circumstances that were no fault of their own. By now most of the people had gone back to their homes or to the taverns, and so the walk, thankfully, was only silently shameful.

Cal, without so much as looking at the mare, spoke. “I saw the Owele, even if nobody else did. I know that mess back there wasn’t your fault.”

Dreamer nickered with what seemed like genuine understanding.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he told the bloodied horse.

As they made their way into the stable yard, a handful of the other groomsmen came to say their apologies and awkward condolences. No one was truly happy to see Cal go, since most of what they knew about the care and calming of horses came from watching Cal. They would miss him, but all of them were secretly grateful it wasn’t their charge who had reared and bucked and caused all the chaos.

Cal put Dreamer back in her stall and went out to draw a bucket of water to wash the blood from her face. “No sense in wasting any time sulking,” he said under his breath. “It’s not going to change the situation, is it?”

“No, it won’t,” said an older voice from behind him. “It won’t change the fact that I am losing my best apprentice. In all the days that I have known you and your family, I have never pictured you to be much of a troublemaker. And yet, this is now twice today that someone has drawn a blade on you with the intent to open you up.”

The master groomsman spoke like a teacher who had just assigned extra homework. “Perhaps the retreating forests will be a safer place than these paranoid streets for you to mature for a while.”

Cal finished pumping the water into the bucket, and with resignation in his voice he said, “Yes sir, perhaps it will.”

“Take a strong saddle, a heftier one than she wore today. Where you are going, speed will be of no concern to you. Durability and practicality are what you must prepare for now,” the old groomsman said. “And here.” He tossed Cal what looked like a small wineskin. “Take this liniment with you. She is going to need it … hell,
you
are going to need it.”

Cal caught the small leather pouch with the wine cork for a stopper. He knew this liniment well, and he knew the great cost of this practical gift.

“Thank you, sir,” Cal humbly spoke.

With that the master groomsman nodded his farewell, and Cal carried both the bucket and the pouch back to Dreamer’s stall.

After the blood was washed and the horse was fed, Cal packed the saddle bags with extra shoes, a brush, a small length of rope, a few dried apples, and, of course, the skin of liniment. He set aside a sack of grain and a large horse blanket and was satisfied that he would have everything he needed for the trek in the morning.

With one last look around the stable, he said goodnight to the horses and began to make his way back home. Westriver used to have a crisp, clean smell to its air; now all anyone could smell was the burning of timber laced with the toxic aroma of fear. His nose tingled and his eyes grew wet. It may have been the smoke getting to him, but as he wiped the tears from his face, he acknowledged to himself that this very well could be his last silver night to walk these smoky streets.

For such a strong and proud kingdom, he thought, one would have never guessed that what they truly feared most was not uprising or enemy, famine or plague … but darkness. Hearths once used solely for cooking now seemed to blaze day in and day out, as if by their low glowing embers they might ward off the creeping night.

Cal navigated his way through the back streets, walking through the smoke and shadows past the rows upon rows of grey-stoned houses towards his family’s modest home. He looked towards the small stone wall in front of the house and what he saw resting there made him stop in his tracks.

“You didn’t think I was going to let you go just like that, did you?” a voice called.

“I didn’t know what to think, to be honest,” Cal replied. “I thought I might have embarrassed you right along with the rest of them. I thought—”

”You think too much, brother,” Michael interrupted.

He got up from the retaining wall and made his way over to Cal, grabbing him by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes.

“Now listen here, horse face … I don’t know what that was that happened out there, but I know for sure that you were not the cause of it.”

Cal tried to speak, but Michael wouldn’t let him.

“All you need to worry about now is making ‘
Res-ti-tu-tion’
,” Michael said with a mocking piety, “as fast and as quietly as you can; then worry about getting that backside of yours back to the stable yard. I mean, come on, you can’t expect those horses to last long with the lousy bunch of groomsmen we’ll have tending to them now, can you?”

“Apprentice groomsmen,” Cal said with laugh.

“Exactly,” said Michael. “Now here, I have something for you, but don’t you go getting attached to it. Just because those Poet-loving parents of yours never gave you a flint … doesn’t mean you need to travel through the forest in the dark.”

Michael took a small leather thong, which had a carved, leaf-shaped piece of flint attached to it, from around his neck. He reached out and put it in the hands of his best friend. “Just make sure I get that back. I had to memorize half of those old Priest’s words to get the blasted thing, and I don’t think I have the time or the wit to pass that kind of test again.”

Cal gripped Michael’s hand with both of his own. He looked him in the eyes and with all sincerity said, “Thank you, brother. I mean it … thank you.”

There was a moment of finality that passed between the two young men. Not one of fear or apprehension, but rather a moment that carried with it an understanding that things would never (and quite certainly
could
never) be this way again.

Michael then spoke words that he had never uttered before, feeling them come from a deep place that he rarely ever frequented. “May the THREE who is SEVEN be with you, and may the hope that you carry in your heart … well,” Michael paused and stared determinedly at the ground, warding off the awkwardness of the unfamiliar words, “… light your way home.”

Cal responded with a heartfelt, “May it be so.”

“Well, you better go see about getting your things together,” Michael said. “So I guess this is goodbye. For now.”

The two friends embraced, and then parted ways for what they knew would be the last time in a long time.

As Michael made his way down the dimly lit street, Cal shouted out to him. “Hey, horse face, don’t be so stingy with the apples, you hear? You never know when you will need one of those horses to return a favor!”

“I hear you,” Michael said, without even looking back.

Chapter Eight

T
hat
night Cal was haunted by the Owele dreams again. Like before, he found himself alone, lost in the thick of the forest with half-eaten snakes at his feet, paralyzed in the stare of the terrible creatures. He slept but never truly rested, and with each fearful waking Cal found himself feeling a greater disdain for these damnable birds of prey.

The morning came too quickly, but Cal dragged his exhausted and now exiled body out of bed and towards the stable yard. With his pack thrown over his shoulder, he took in the greying borough of Westriver, hoping to imprint a memory of home that could get him through his ‘
res-ti-tu-tion’
in the harsh North.

By the time he made it into the gates of Westriver’s main stable yard, the other groomsmen were hard at work readying the scouting party’s mounts. Cal felt a twinge of embarrassment as he walked with his head down towards Dreamer’s stall, avoiding as much eye contact as he possibly could. He felt out of place now, wanting to just get in and get out before things grew more awkward than they already were.

He walked past the rows of horses standing at the ready before he finally reached his wounded traveling companion. As he unlatched the wooden gate he couldn’t help but feel pity and shame when he looked at her.

“It was … I mean, it
is
a pretty face you have there, girl. Oh I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess,” Cal told her.

The angry red lines marking the mare’s face had stopped bleeding the day before, but Dreamer carried with her a woundedness that seemed to go much deeper than the scabbed talon marks.

Cal carefully stroked her nose and ears, staying clear of the gashes cascading down her flaxen face. As she relaxed under his gentle hands, he moved in closer and embraced her neck. With his left hand he rubbed her shoulder, and as he placed his right hand just below her throatlatch he spoke with a language that made no sound.

Her warm breath against his back began to slow as he felt the pumping of her strong heart underneath the palm of his rough hand. He could feel his own heart working in rhythm, pulsing in harmony with the heart of the large mare. Cal exhaled very slowly, and then it was as if something clicked in place between them and a connection was made, bringing with it a queer sort of understanding.

The apprehension Cal and Dreamer both felt, not just about the trek they would be making, but also about the bridle that would have to be fitted on her tender face, seemed to melt away. A hush calmed their fears as Cal backed away to look her in the eyes; what he saw when he looked into them was nothing less than trust.

Dreamer lowered her head and Cal began the careful process of fitting her for their journey.

“That’s a good girl right there,” he whispered. “You and me … yeah, we’ll be just fine.”

After Dreamer had been bridled and saddled, her bags were fitted and supplies secured. Cal climbed atop her strong back, and they set out together on the long road north.

There was not sadness in their faces as they rode out past the stable yard and made their way onto the main road that led out of Westriver; rather, there was a determination. It was as if they both somehow accepted the fact that they were commencing a journey towards a metamorphosis that was sure to leave them wholly unrecognizable.

Leaving the city of the dying tree was not something practical people did these days. Since the darkening began, creatures both vile and venomous had begun to grow brash in their disregard for the boundaries of the civilized. Though for centuries they had been held at bay by the power of the amber and silver lights, they were no longer confined to the wildernesses and shadow lands beyond.

The northern guard constantly had its hands full, especially in the last twenty years or so as more branches began to fall. Highwaymen and petty thieves alike had made a living wreaking havoc on the small communities that pocked the northern territory outside the protected borough of Piney Creek.

Even the outliers, the nomadic tribes, and the forest dwellers had moved south, seeking refuge in the plains to the west. The hospitality of the North had long since faded away, and what replaced it was more ominous than welcoming. Rumors had begun to spread of an evil much darker than thieves and raiders. Inside the walls of the northernmost part of Haven, guards and grandmothers alike told their dark tales. Reports of wolves and shadow cats making off with livestock and small children sent a chill of fear that kept all but the desperate or dedicated from venturing too far past the high walls of the city.

The woodcutters moved among the abandoned villages nearest to the dying forests. Cutter camps, as they were called, were the only small pockets of relative safety in this darkening wild. Safety, mainly because of the day in and day out noise, the myriad of burning braziers, and the sharp bite of hundreds of gleaming axe blades that had claimed many a hide and many a head.

Cal had barely made it out of Westriver before it became obvious that the light was significantly dimmer than what he had grown used to over the last few years. The journey on its own would not be an easy one, but now that it was compounded with lessening of the amber light, he realized it might be trickier than he first had anticipated.

Since his parents had raised him with the words of hope and tales of beauty that the bygone Poets had once freely taught throughout all of Haven, Cal, instead of turning to grey thoughts of loss, chose to brighten his journey a bit with a song his mother used to sing to him as a young boy.

“You can see, you can see if you want to.

You can do, you can do what you ought to.

If you choose not to lose the light that’s in you,

You can see, you can be, you can do most anything—

and you’ll get to.”

The sound of the river Abonris and his mother’s song kept Cal and Dreamer company on the lonely trek northward. The light of the tree continued to fade with each league that the two of them progressed, but something inside of Cal, at least for the moment, seemed bright enough to light their way safely.

As Cal came within sight of the gate on the northernmost part of Piney Creek, he began to feel the weariness of the road, for they had been traveling for the better part of the day. It was now deep evening, and the amber light of the great tree had long since faded into its softer silver color.

The sounds of life and laughter were still lingering upon the night air of Piney Creek, so Cal let his eyes search the lit windows of the humble stone houses for a sign of hospitality. He spied a tavern straight ahead; its lights were still burning brightly and the sounds of life still echoed from its walls. He encouraged Dreamer onward, ready for a small respite and a hot meal before their journey continued.

As they approached the tavern, another thought crossed his mind.
I should probably ask someone who actually knows these parts where it is exactly that the main cutter camp is currently situated
.

He focused his gaze on the tavern ahead and spoke aloud to Dreamer. “These woodcutters move their camp quite often, always chasing the trees like they are hunting them. The last thing I want is to get ourselves lost out there in the dark middle of nowhere … or worse.”

The wounded horse snorted in agreement.

For now, he hoped that his answers lay somewhere where he could rest his tired bones and fill his empty belly with something warm and tasty. “What do you think, girl? This place looks as good as any, right?”

He dismounted Dreamer and hitched her to the post outside the tavern, taking a moment to give her an apple and a kind word of thanks for her dutiful progress throughout the day.

The “Gnarly Knob” was as accurate a description as a place like this could possibly have. The tavern seemed altogether twisted and maybe a bit crooked too, though the weatherworn patrons lent credence to the name along with its rugged décor. The floors were a patchwork of long-aged clapboards, while the tables were made out of twisted old tree stumps; most of the patrons who sat at the bar and dined at the twisted stumps were the kind of folk who could make a life in the places most others wouldn’t dare to try.

Cal took a seat at the half-f bar as the tavern owner, a curly-haired man on the downward side of middle age, limped his way over in a manner that suggested both the kindness of his hospitality and the amiable nature of his disposition.

“The name is Shameus,” he said as he gave the traveler a quick once-over. “The boys and I can see that you are not from these parts … and since we don’t get many people who happen to be on holiday this way, I am quite obliged to ask what kind of business you are up to here in the dark North?”

“Well sir, my name is Cal, and to be honest, I am in the business of finding a good, hot meal to fill my belly, and maybe a warm bed to make rest in. I’ve been riding all day and most of the night, and I fear I have quite a bit more riding to do before I reach the cutter camp,” Cal said matter-of-factly.

“Cutter camp!” Shameus blurted out. “What would a soft-handed young man like yourself want with a cutter camp? You do know what goes on in those brutal places, don’t you?” he asked as he poured Cal a pint from behind the bar.

“I’ve seen good men, well-meaning lads, heed the call of the Priests, taking their flints and axes in pursuit of the greater good. What comes back is a much colder sort … and not just because it’s chilly up near the Hilgari
.”

He slammed the pint onto the counter, sloshing its contents as he leaned closer to Cal’s face and spoke earnestly. “Something inside them—the warm parts I guess you would call them—they must get left behind like the dying stumps of those trees that they fell.”

A barmaid, not much younger than Cal, came towards Shameus carrying a hot loaf of bread and bowl of something steaming.

“Thanks, love,” Shameus said to the girl. “That there is my Keily, and this here is her boar stew ... and aye, it is a good one at that. She makes it with heaping chunks of fresh boar—well, mostly fresh—with onions and mushrooms found in the stump lands. Her mother died years ago, and you better thank the THREE who is SEVEN that she did, because that woman’s cooking would have put you in the grave long before the darkness or those Priests in the cutter camps ever did.”

The bar erupted with laughter, and a few of the older patrons laughed with a knowing that told Cal he must be quite a bit luckier than those who frequented the Gnarly Knob a few years back.

Keily gave the bowl and the bread to her father, pausing to take in the sight of the handsome young stranger who sat as a guest in her family’s tavern. She gave him a smile that hinted of a bit more than mere hospitality, and then she bid him to enjoy his supper.

Cal’s eyes couldn’t help but follow the beautiful brown-haired girl as she left the dining hall and made her way back into the kitchen. Her beauty was remarkable, and rather out of place here in an old tavern in the cold and greying North. Cal welcomed her bright presence almost as much as he did her cooking.

“Aye, she was an awful woman … and an even worse cook!” Some patrons at a table near the back of the tavern shouted out in agreement with the old tavern owner.

“But for some reason, I still loved her,” Shameus told him, bringing his attention back to their conversation. “My Keily is all I have left of her now. The best part is, I don’t have to drink up all the profits to stand working alongside this one,” he chuckled as he pointed towards the kitchen.

“It’s good,” Cal said after his first steaming mouthful of stew. “Truly your daughter knows her way around a boar and a kitchen.”

“She had her whole life to practice living with that boar behind the counter!” an old man bellowed out, pointing playfully at Shameus. The tavern erupted once again with the sound of laugher, and Cal’s spirits, at least for the moment, felt a bit more at ease.

When he was nearly finished with his supper, Cal called to Shameus and asked if he could rent a stall to board Dreamer for the night.

“Oh sure, we have stables aplenty … though I can’t say much for their condition at the present,” Shameus said as he puffed away on his long-handled pipe. “Like I said before, we don’t get many visitors in these parts since the light started fading on us, not to mention that all the strange disappearances around here have earned the North an unfriendly reputation. Besides, most all of our horses find themselves one way or another in the service of the woodcutters.”

Cal nodded slowly at Shameus, taking in the meaning of his cautionary words.

“But sure, you can house your horse here,” Shameus said with accommodating ease. “I’ll have one of the lads show you around, and we might even be able to scare you up some alfalfa or a few oats.”

“Strange disappearances?” Cal asked with concern, not willing to let the comment pass. “You … you mean horses?”

“Oh sure … horses, dogs, a few nagging wives.” He jabbed Cal in the ribs, clearly doing his best to break some of the tension. “Though,” he said with a touch of sadness in his voice, “some of the lads and lassies and a few of my friends too have gotten themselves lost out there in the darkness beyond the wall. There are even tales of some of the woodcutters never making their way back to camp. To be right truthful … it has the whole lot of this town a bit spooked.”