2

  THE WAYFARER'S WARNING

  ??

  The tavern was aglow with candles and a roaring fire. Golden light spilled out of dusty windowpanes, accompanied by raucous laughter and the clinking of mugs, and Isabel’s heart warmed gratefully as she stepped onto the long wooden porch and out of the lashing rain. She stood outside for a few moments, enjoying the patter on the roof, before entering.

  Alden looked up from behind the counter as the door creaked and gave her a broad grin. “Isabel! The ale is fine and flowing this evening! Care for a draught?”

  “No, thank you Alden,” Isabel greeted the burly tavern-keeper, throwing her hood back and settling the basket on a nearby table. She wondered briefly if he would toss her out, if he knew where the basket and its contents had come from, and where she had been wandering in the early morning hours. “I’ll take a cup of tea. Primrose, if you please.”

  “Bah—only for you!”

  Isabel slipped past finely crafted tables and well-worn chairs which had been shoved around to accommodate larger groups, nodding to the men and women who chatted amongst themselves whenever her presence was acknowledged. A few of the older men returned her greeting; most of the younger ones still harbored some resentment over their spurned advances, and the women tsked under their breath at her passing. Their village was small enough for gossip to run rampant, and Isabel’s life was a strange one to most. Her father had been away those past few years on business in Ridgefell, and had written recently to say only that he had remarried, and did not plan to return.

  That satisfied Isabel perfectly well, as she had never seen eye-to-eye with the old man, and was not prone to the sort of nervous disposition which would make her ill-suited to living alone. All that the gossips knew of the matter was that she was nearing her thirty-first winter, had turned down every offer of marriage made in that time, and often wandered about the nearby woodlands, the market square, Wilifrey’s fields, and anywhere else that she pleased, unaccompanied and unbothered by their disapproving remarks.

  As she passed another table, she noticed a young couple from further down the valley. The farmer drank with the older men, and his pretty blonde wife drank alone, casting a piteous glance at Isabel; they had wed three years ago, and fallen quite out of love in the interim.

  The younger woman wanted her to take up a chair, that she might regale her with all manner of slights and tragedies both fabricated and exaggerated; but as she was exactly the sort of false, petty creature whom Isabel took all pains to avoid, she instead pulled out a stool and seated herself at the bar, watching Alden deftly procure the tea she had requested.

  Nobody else asked for such a drink, but he kept several of his wife’s dried herbs behind the counter in case the lady came to visit and listen to the gossipers.

  Blinding light flashed in the window as tremendous clap of thunder rattled the tavern.

  Isabel flinched, and the voices around her hushed momentarily. A few glanced nervously at the roof, as if afraid it might collapse beneath the force of such a sound. As the booming voice of the storm rolled away and the general chatter resumed, Isabel pulled her damp cloak more snugly around her shoulders and glanced toward the fire, grateful for its warmth and cheer.

  There, in the flickering shadows near the edge of the hearth, sat a lonely figure.

  He wore a weather-beaten hat pulled low over his eyes, and was presently hunched over a mug of dark liquor which he grasped in gnarled hands. She observed him for a moment, a sense of familiarity capturing her attention.

  It was not until he lifted his head to down the rest of the mug’s contents that she recognized him.

  Hunter hailed from parts unknown, an old wayfarer with the grizzled aspect of one better acquainted with fen and field than house and hearth. He had passed through the valley one spring, long ago, and since then acquired a habit of stopping in for a drink and a tale every few years. She had been a youth of twenty winters the first time he passed through, and even then his beard had been rather peppery. He had changed surprisingly little in appearance since, though his eyes were tired and sunken, and the few streaks of grey in his hair were now well-defined.

  Today his beard was long and unkempt, his greasy hair hung loose under his hat, and he wore a tattered cloak which had obviously been soaked through with the rain; it had begun to dry in patches, which made her wonder how long he had been sitting there.

  She frowned.

  He had once been rather well-liked in town, but few people gave him the time of day, and fewer still after Ember’s disappearance. Several even blamed him for addling the young fisherman’s mind with stories of river folk and far-off lands. Regardless, he had always been kind and generous with Isabel—like the rest of the men in the valley, though his clumsy attentions bothered her a great deal less.

  Possibly because no one had urged her to take him as a husband.

  Alden returned with her primrose tea, and followed her gaze. His face hardened and a scowl tugged at his brow.

  “He arrived shortly after this damned squall set in; been here since then.”

  Her frown deepened. “Since this morning?”

  “Yes, indeed. Spent every coin he had, I reckon, but he says he can’t remember where he put the rest—if he doesn’t pay up by the time he leaves, mark me, he’ll be payin’ another way.”

  “Hunter doesn’t drink so heavily,” Isabel mused, tapping her finger against the mug of tea.

  Alden grunted. “Ain’t my concern.”

  “Did he mention what was troubling him?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  And she knew that was the last she’d hear on the matter from Alden.

  ?

  “Hunter,” Isabel said gently, pulling out a chair and seating herself nearby. “I haven’t seen you round the valley in a longish while.”

  “Ain’t been half long enou’,” he slurred, irritably eyeing the empty mug and turning it upside down over his mouth. He shook it several times, to no avail.

  “I suppose you're just passing through?”

  “Suppose…” His eyes shifted between her and the storm outside, surly and dark.

  “You’re usually so anxious to regale us with your misadventures,” she prompted, sipping her tea. “Not a single bawdy ballad for the ladies of the valley?”

  Hunter’s eyes flashed, and his nose wrinkled in a snarl.

  “Don’t you dare be singin’ tonight,” he warned in a breathy whisper, clenching the mug. “Not one damn word out o’ you, nor any other fool… bad luck, singin’ in a storm.”

  “Well, that’s not like you, at all.” Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Whatever could still the silver tongue of Hunter Nomanson?”

  He thumped the mug on the table, his gaze darting to the window again.

  “Nothin’,” he said, in rather a childlike manner.

  Isabel glanced over her shoulder, but glimpsed nothing of note besides the darkness of the gale and a faint reflection of firelight dancing in the panes. Still, that foreboding crept upon her again; she had merely caught a drift of it in the woods near Ember’s cabin, and it had rolled in like a mist with the storm.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “You’re not a very good liar, Hunter.”

  “Oh, I’m not?” He hiccuped. “What be I?”

  “A drunkard, it seems.”

  Hunter looked away, dragging at his beard with unsteady fingers, muttering. “Pestilent witch…”

  Isabel huffed and arose from the chair, sliding it back under its proper table with a stuttering creak.

  “You know better,” she chided him impatiently. “I ask again, for the last time: what has you in such a state?”

  He jammed his hat further down on his head and settled back in the chair, crossing his arms and squinting one eye at her.

  “Hows abouts,” he declared, with loud annoyance, “you… hic… tell me what.”

  Isabel did not need to look over her shoulder to know that everybody in the tavern was staring at them: several of the gossipers quieted, and she noticed the young farmer’s wife glaring in her periphery, doubtless shocked that anyone who had so recently shunned her conversation might give away their attention so freely to lesser company.

  She glanced toward the window again, which was beginning to tink with sideways rain, and then back to Hunter. Already she had drawn far too much attention to herself, but the foreboding was too strong to ignore. Hunter had no friends left in their village; as he was obviously inebriated, and perhaps in some sort of trouble, she felt a begrudging sense of duty to sober him if she could, or find him a place of refuge from the rain.

  Alden would have been her first recourse, but his earlier remarks warned her that the burly barkeep was certainly not of a mind to be putting anyone up for a night, least of all the drunken wayfarer.

  “Have you any notion of where you are going to sleep?”

  “Not… hic… with you…” He blearily looked her up and down, stifling a belch behind his hand. “...am I?”

  Someone giggled.

  Isabel flattened her mouth and tapped the table with two fingers. “Hunter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Ought, but ain’t.”

  I’m trying to help you, fool, she thought scornfully, but there was nothing to be done. If she persisted, she would be the talk of the village for far more than a day or two. Isabel took one last sip of her tea, pulled up the hood of her cloak, and started for the door.

  “You headin’ out… alone?”

  She turned, surprised, to see Hunter peering up at her from underneath his hat.

  “How else am I to return home?” she inquired calmly.

  “Don’t.”

  Isabel narrowed her eyes at him, but he was looking down, the hat brim hiding his face once more.

  “Don’t leave.” He clenched the mug, twisting it in white-knuckled fingers. “Don’t anybody leave, if you know what’s good for ya.”

  “It’s just a bit of rain, friend,” said Lundr, one of the younger farmers; he had been an acquaintance of Ember’s, she recalled, and an accomplice of the villagers who had lit his cabin ablaze. “Or are you perhaps looking for an excuse to walk a fair lady home after dark?”

  “That man is rambling drunk when he’s stone sober,” laughed another. “He’s had far too many beers tonight to know what he’s on about. Why—”

  Bang.

  Hunter’s fist slammed into the table.

  The empty mug rolled off the edge, shattering into a hundred shards.

  Alden let out an angry oath.

  “Damn you, Hunter! Upon my head I’ll—”

  “Nobody leaves!”

  Isabel stiffened as he rose unsteadily from the chair, which clattered to the floor behind him. His boots crunched on broken pottery, and a few villagers scrambled out of his way as his shadow fell across the wall, warped by dancing flames. With his pack and cutlass strapped to his back, and the great cloak bunched around his shoulders, he more resembled an angry mountain bear than a man.

  She had never been afraid of Hunter, but a flicker of something akin to fear rose within her now. For a woman, she was of an unusually tall and gangly stature, but this slight benefit would mean nothing in a tavern brawl. She took a step away, concerned.

  “The only one leaving this tavern is you!” Alden warned him, looming behind the bar. He was not as broad as Hunter, but paunchier, and soberer—which was perhaps his best advantage. “Pull yourself together, and get out.”

  Isabel was already heading for the door when she heard Hunter’s footsteps pounding after her. She flung it open and slipped outside onto the porch, striding briskly for the steps. She could not abide any more of this foolery—she’d had quite enough disagreeableness for one day, and the last place she planned to be was in the midst of a drunken fisticuff.

  “Isabel!”

  The door slammed against the log wall behind her, and she turned to see the haggard wayfarer thumping across the porch, fist clenched. She darted down the steps and through a waterfall of rain which cascaded over the eve, just as another flash of light illuminated the treeline and a clap of thunder rocked the valley.

  “They’re here!” he roared. “They're singin’ up a storm!”

  The door creaked again and Wilifrey thudded onto the porch, followed by the younger farmer.

  “Somebody, grab him!” shouted Lundr, rather gleefully. “Hold him—”

  There was a scuffle, and Wilifrey let out a yelp of dismay.

  “Maker’s mead!”

  Isabel glanced back, pressing her lips together in distaste as the smaller men threw the drunkard against one of the lodgepole pine pillars which supported the tavern roof, cracking his head upon it. Hunter tumbled down the stairs into the freezing slurry, and Lundr kicked at his face.

  “Lundr!” she cried at that, abandoning her usual distance from such matters. “Wilifrey! Let him go!”

  Lundr grinned as the disoriented wayfarer scrambled upright in the mud, and then planted his knee beneath his chin, toppling him again.

  Before she knew what she was doing, the basket left her hand.

  It wasn’t heavy, but the force with which it had been flung affected the desired result. Lundr flinched backward as it struck his forehead, and the berries and turnips whipped out and pelted Alden and Wilifrey. The distraction gave Hunter enough time to scramble to his feet. Instead of lurching away from the porch, as Isabel had hoped, he punched Wilifrey square in the mouth and took a wild swing at Alden.

  “They’ll be whistlin’ for yer women and yer children in the night!” Hunter’s cry was hoarse with delirium. “The forest has eyes, but the trees won’t save you! We’re alone in the dark! In the dark, ya hear?”

  She cast about quickly for a stone, and dug one out of a puddle with her bare fingers—but as the weight of it settled into her palm, she understood that she could easily kill with such a weapon, if her aim were true. She used to hunt rabbits that way, long ago.

  Hunter had gotten himself into this.

  He would have to get himself out, if he could.

  The old wayfarer made short work of Lundr, who tucked tail and darted inside, and a moment later Wilifrey was doubled over, swearing about his teeth. Through a haze of rain and mud, she saw three other farmers pile out of the tavern, and Hunter had the sense to realize he was outmatched. The men shouted curses, calling him names, and damned him for everything from a poor harvest to the death of somebody’s grandmother.

  Isabel darted away as Hunter barreled past, heaving himself astride a ragged horse which she had overlooked upon her arrival, and now recognized as belonging to none of the villagers. The creature huffed and hawed, stamping in the mud and squealing at another thunderclap.

  “You old rogue!” Alden bellowed at last, from the safety of the doorway. “I tell you now, by all the gods what ever lived, if you set foot in this village once more, it’ll be the last step you ever take!”

  “Hunter!” Isabel shouted. “Don’t be a fool!”

  She snatched at the reins, but he had already given the nag a kick in the ribs, and it bolted into the storm. She let go swiftly, staggering back as mud splashed up onto her dress and spattered her face.

  “Good riddance,” Alden said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Hope I never clap eyes on that devil again.”

  Isabel stared after him in dazed confusion. Wilifrey was spitting blood off the edge of the porch and whining curses, but she hardly heard him through the pouring rain and the echo of Hunter’s words in her ears.

  Eyes of the forest.

  Whistle for your women.

  Singing up a storm.

  The implications of his drunken rambling disturbed her, for she recognized scattered pieces of Hunter’s tales and songs. More than that, it reminded her of the river-folk. Isabel hadn’t glimpsed one of their kind since Ember fled their valley. Yet the wildness in his eyes left her with a peculiar sinking dread; that sense of foreboding burrowed deeper into her soul, and she shivered as the rain soaked her hair.

  “No sense talking reason with a madman, Isabel,” Alden said kindly. “Come in by the fire, and warm up a bit.”

  She considered it, wiping her face and smearing the mud from her nose to her ear. Then she tugged the sodden cloak over her head and reclaimed her empty basket, dismally taking note of its broken handle. Her opinion of the barkeep, after his part in the escalation of these events, was now wholly unfavorable.

  “Thank you, Alden,” she said tersely, through chattering teeth, “but it’s getting rather late.”

  “Might I ask one of my sons to walk you home?”

  “That won’t be necessary—I’d rather not trouble them.”

  And without waiting for a reply, Isabel set out briskly through the village square, toward the forest path, and her father’s old farm.