18

If all women were like this Hallara–or Fawkes, for that matter–patriarchy wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, Hunter thought. What the medicine woman lacked in stature, she more than made up for in presence; she was truly a study in contradiction. She was a tiny old thing clad in white fur garments, crowned with thick, equally white plaits that ran almost to her knees. Her wrinkled skin was tan and sunburnt, yet fine like vellum. She looked old and fragile; her jade green eyes, however, burnt with a vibrant intensity that betrayed she was anything but that.

Vanchik, Daeran, and a couple of other folken–though not that angry guy Tego, Hunter noticed–hovered around Hallara like children holding on to the hem of their mother’s skirt. Gone was the alderman’s self-importance, gone was the watchman’s gruffness and bravado; in their place there was only respect. As Fawkes and Hunter joined the small huddle, they all fell silent and let the medicine woman do the speaking.

“Hile, Fawkes. May your days be many and your nights serene.”

“May the ancestors will it,” Fawkes answered. “Yours and mine both. For those of you I have not yet met, they call me Fawkes of the Lodge, of the Foreign West.”

The folken nodded, but remained silent.

“And you, young man?” the medicine woman turned to Hunter, her sharp eyes catching him by surprise.

“They call me Hunter,” he blurted. “Of the, uh… Lodge, too. Of the Foreign West.”

He probably shouldn’t have added that last part. It must have been some kind of blunder, he realized, but it was too late. Fawkes stared daggers at him, indignant. Still, she said nothing–though Hunter bet she’d have quite a lot to say later, when they would be alone and out of the folken’s earshot.

If Hallara got any of that underlying context, she didn’t show it. She put her hand on Daeran’s arm, as if to steady herself, and turned back to Fawkes.

“Daeran tells me he’s seen the carnage for himself, but it was you who first stumbled upon it. Pray tell us, if you please, what do you make of it? Spare no detail, for this is a matter of grave importance.”

Grave indeed, Hunter thought to himself, but said nothing. Apparently, he had put his foot in his mouth enough for one day.

Fawkes started describing the grisly scene back at the clearing in all its bloodcurdling glory, with Daeran occasionally piping in to agree or add some small detail. Vanchik was listening with a progressively deepening scowl. The rest of the folken looked shocked and speechless–save for Hallara, of course. Hallara looked unshaken and calm, but the intensity in her stare told another story altogether.

“… so I opted to let the bodies lay undisturbed,” Fawkes concluded. “It was only right to let you see them with your own eyes, draw your own conclusions.”

“And you say neither man nor beast could have done the killing, correct?” asked Vanchik, whose thick grey brows were so furrowed Hunter could hardly see his eyes.

Fawkes shook her head emphatically, and Daeran agreed.

“No natural beast I know of could have done such an evil thing,” the wathcman said, “and certainly no man.”

“And yet, there was intelligence behind its acts,” added Fawkes, as if pondering over every single one of the words she spoke, choosing them with care. “Maliciousness. A propensity for mysticism and the eldritch mysteries, even.”

“I will say it again,” Vanchik said. “As I see it, it could only be the Ghost Nation.” “Skin-witches,” Daeran agreed. “They cajole vile beings best left unnamed; they whisper dark secrets better left forgotten. I know it.”

If this was a TV show scene, Hunter would find all this doom and gloom over the top. Cringeworthy, really. In this case, however, he had seen the slaughter for himself. He had smelled the tang of spilled blood wafting from the soil beneath his feet. He had felt his stomach clench and his heart skip a beat at the sight of torn limbs strewn around like discarded toys.

Game or no game, Elderpyre felt real.

Disturbingly real.

“Maybe Tego is right,” said one of the folken quietly. “Maybe the ancestors are angry at us. Maybe it’s the–”

“Tego is a fool, and so are you for listening to him, sirrah” Vanchik exploded, shutting the other man up mid-sentence.

“Whatever the truth may be,” the medicine woman piped in, restoring order, “the forest has become dangerous. Spread the word. Until we know more, no folken are to venture under its canopy.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, but Hallara wasn’t done yet.

“You, however, are not folken,” she turned to Fawkes. “You are not bound by our rules. In fact, I considered your request, and I have decided to grant it. You may visit the Ghostbarrows, though I would still have to advise against it.”

For a moment, the two women stared at each other, Fawkes’s iron-gray gaze clashing with Hallara’s jade-green. There was some kind of unspoken exchange there, that much was obvious, though Hunter couldn’t begin to guess what it was about.

“Very well,” Fawkes said finally. “I shall take your advisement under consideration, but I fear I the search for my compatriot will take me to the Ghostbarrows regardless.”

“May the ancestors light your path, then,” Daeran said, his own furrowed brow matching the alderman’s. “May you have their guidance and protection, foreigner, because you’ll surely need it.”

***

“So, that went well” said Hunter as the two of them left the longhouse and headed for their tent.

“Well enough for me, save your indiscretion,” Fawkes said without slowing down. “For the folken? Not so well.”

“What indiscretion? What did I do this time?”

“Claiming to be of the Lodge is no laughing matter, lad.”

“I just repeated what you said,” Hunter shrugged. “To get them to believe I’m with you. You know, add credibility to your story.”

To that, Fawkes said nothing. Her sneer was answer enough.

They were somewhere near the center of the encampment when something caught Hunter’s attention. It was something like a totem pole, carved and etched and decorated with animal motifs.

“Give me a moment,” he told Fawkes. “I want to check something out.”

He walked over to the pole and touched it. As he had suspected, a dialogue window popped up before him.

Do you wish to anchor yourself to this Place of Power?

Yes, he willed, and felt that familiar feeling of something tugging at his core and shift inside him. The connection he had felt to the previous Place of Power he’d found waned, and was replaced with a link to the totem pole.

You are now anchored to this place of power.

You receive the blessing of the Hawk ancestral spirit, protector of the Hawk Tribe. Your Inspiration quality is now 1.

Good, a checkpoint. He didn’t plan to kick the bucket again, but if he did, he’d rather not have to hoof it all the way back from the wayshrine behind the log cabin.

Fawkes watched with a raised eyebrow, looking puzzled. For the umpteenth time, Hunter wondered how much she knew about Skills and Abilities and Attributes and notifications and all that jazz. Were these things common knowledge in Elderpyre, or did he have access to them because he was a transient?

Hunter had a strong suspicion that the truth was closer to the latter.

“More of your transient craftiness?” Fawkes asked.

“Something like that, yes.”

“Tell me, lad” she shook her head, “do you want the folken to take out all their fear and superstition on you? Because they will make a scapegoat out of you if they find out. Gods know they need one.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be more careful.”

“I should hope so,” she grumbled as she started walking towards their tent again. “Or we'll both end up on the wrong side of their hospitality.”