September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Butterhoof reared, snapping Mak from the monotonous reverie of a long ride. “What’s wrong, girl?” He gripped the reins and rubbed her neck to calm her. The small bag of seeds he’d bought before leaving town spilled out of the saddlebags, and the whiskey bottle thudded onto the packed dirt road.

A long, slender lizard scuttled into the field to their left. “That’s it?” Mak ceased the patting and wiped sweat off his brow. “You’ve laid waste to my seeds and drink over a damn lizard?” He pulled her to a stop, hopped off, and kept her reins in hand in case the creature returned.

He crouched and retrieved the bottle from the mound of seeds, relieved to find it unharmed. He set it beside the mound and scooped as much bird feed as he could, careful to leave soiled seeds behind. His light coin purse reminded him that chickens ate off the ground anyway. He gathered the rest of the feed, down to the last dirty seed, and dumped them into a separate sack retrieved with a quick dip in the nearest saddlebag.

He stored both sacks, then stepped around Butterhoof’s rump to place the whiskey bottle in the deepest bag with Skylde’s fiddle. He shouted a curse. It wasn’t the first time he’d brought the instrument to town and failed to have it repaired.

The bottle clanked as it dropped beside the broken instrument. “I’m home darlin’. Oh, your fiddle? No, I didn’t. But I got some whiskey. That’s right, darlin’. Pa never forgets that.” Butterhoof’s ears twitched as Mak spoke to himself. She watched him in silence and did not blink. He removed his hat and waved it over her face. “Don’t you judge me.”

She turned her head away from the hat, revealing an anomaly in the field beyond her. Mak narrowed his eyes, led Butterhoof to a thin tree, and hitched her to it. It wouldn’t be enough to hold her if she chose to flee, but the mare was trustworthy enough.

The road ran along the ledge of a short plateau. There was a slight but steep descent into the field, where planks of wood jutted from the dry grass. Mak stepped off the road and flung his arms out for balance. He slipped multiple times on the unstable dirt but kept his footing. He was half way down when thorny branches took hold of his ankle. He fell, cursed, and continued down on his ass. Thorns pierced his pants, but the thought of snake holes, common in such inclines, was enough to let him ignore the pricks.

He got to his feet at the bottom of the decline, caught his breath, and brushed dozens of itchy, painful barbs from his backside. Butterhoof snorted above. Mak cracked his aching shoulder, adjusted his hat, and mumbled, “Yeah, keep laughing.”

He trudged through the tall brittle grass, withered timothy, and countless thorny bushes. An assortment of shattered wood lay before him. He wrapped his fingers around the nearest jutting piece and studied the pile with narrowed eyes. A gust of warm wind rushed over him. Thorns and dry grass hissed, and something squeaked within the pile. He circled the mess of wood, careful not to step on splintered planks, and found a spinning wheel still attached to the axel.

It was a carriage, a familiar one. Mak crouched and sifted through the wreckage. Disheveled pants, shirts, and dresses, all brown, grey, or white, piled over linen-wrapped breads, a hammer, two water-skins, and a jumble of other household items that blended together in a cloud of familiarity.

The head of a fiddle protruded from the center of the wreck. Mak pulled at it slowly and extracted it like a sword from a tight sheath. The instrument belonged to Daun’s oldest daughter, Jo. Mak put a hand over his mouth and took an almost drunken step back.

A gleam caught the sun in the mess of items. He moved forward and fished it from the pile. It was Parren’s knife. A well-crafted hunting blade—short, double-edged, with a good, solid weight to it. Mak had been there when Daun gifted it to the boy, only twelve at the time. Sherik had complained about not having his own.

Daun’s only hopes rested in Parren and Jo making it to the city, but they’d barely gone ten miles before… something happened. Blood rushed to his head. His knees wobbled, and he wanted to sit, but the carpet of thorns dissuaded him. It was like losing a niece and nephew. He clutched his head with both hands and fought back tears.

Mak checked on Butterhoof twenty yards back, his sight blurry. The mare perused the dry offerings around her tree, oblivious to the new fear that chilled Mak’s blood. The evidence of recent tragedy irrationally suggested that another was around the corner, as if simply being near a wreckage invited another crash.

With knife and fiddle in hand, Mak started for the road. Multiple scenarios played out in his mind, but none that could be considered an accident made any sense. Had their horse gotten spooked and drove them off the road, the kids would have either been dead or injured, but present. If they survived and were somehow mobile, they would have never left their food and water behind. And even if they hopped on the horse for the short ride home, Parren would have certainly taken his knife.

This was an attack. What sort of monster could do such a thing to innocent children? Most bandits had no conscience or care for God. But they killed to gain, and many items with value remained. Parren and Jo were good kids, and Daun had no enemies, as far as Mak knew. That leaves only one possibility in my mind.

* * *

There was nothing but dust in their galloping wake each time Mak glanced over his shoulder. He yanked the reins before the road turned to Daun’s farm. Butterhoof slowed gradually before stopping. Mak felt like the Devil’s messenger, riding Damrius’ steed from Hellrim itself. Bringing more ill news, though it was infinitely worse than Milli’s stillborn, was the right thing to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of Daun’s family enduring abuse, surviving through the hope that Parren and Jo would find success up north.

The first fence pole of Daun’s property hid behind a line of thorny trees. Mak pulled Butterhoof toward it and hitched her to a trunk, well out of sight. She snorted a complaint as her hide rubbed against a prickly branch. Mak patted her neck. “I know, girl. It’s better than what they’d do if they saw us.” He fed her another compact square of hay then pushed through the branches with arms raised to protect his face.

He crouched, skulked along the wooden fence, and risked a few glances over the weathered rail. The property was abandoned. Nothing moved but tall grass in the wind, the three-storey house was dark and silent, and even the birds sang no song.

The westering sun poured hot red light across the land. Distorted shadows lay stretched and diagonal from their source, as if reaching desperately for water. Mak halted. His dry lips parted. He risked longer exposure and peered a dozen yards past Daun’s home. The rail was complete. Fresh steel caught red sunlight, flawless wood planks were wedged between steel lines like a fallen ladder, and it sat atop a mound of black gravel that stretched over the ruins of Daun’s crop field before curving south, out of sight toward Mak’s home.

There were no signs of the centaurs and men who’d been present only a sun’s arc ago. How had they completed construction so fast? Perhaps centaurs were more efficient than he thought. I see why businessmen are so quick to give up so much coin for them. He shook his head in disapproval.

Satisfied with his perceived solitude, Mak hurried along the fence and pushed through the gate. His boots crunched on the gravel path. He stopped. The land was hilly and interspersed with thick patches of trees perfect for hiding. He felt watching eyes but saw none. Hairs stood on the back of his neck.

He experimented with alternating footfalls in search of the quietest step. Heel to toe crunched the loudest. Toe to heel wasn’t much better. He even tried to settle the outside of his foot first and fall gradually to the inside, but it barely made a difference. He stopped a quarter way down the path and looked around again. No one. Daun must’ve left, but it couldn’t have been with his two eldest according to the state of their carriage. What could’ve been gained by exploring a house conquered by Westen Freight? There was too much to risk. The front door swung fully open and slammed against the wall. Mak jumped and nearly bolted. The warm wind caught up to him and calmed his nerves, slightly. He dropped his chin and turned back for the road.

A cry thundered from not too far away. On the property. Mak’s spine turned to a steel rod, and sweat dripped down his skin. His breathing increased, and he stood motionless. Another cry. Like a giant man being ripped apart by a pack of wolves.

A quickened heart thumped in his ears. He found the courage to move. He turned his head and dragged his eyes along the land, both wanting and not wanting to find the source of the chilling bellow. Hills draped in dry grass with the odd tree patch. No one.

The cry ceased. He stood in silence and watched as a column of birds blossomed into a retreat like a blanket drying on the line. They wavered and swerved, perfectly synchronized. Hundreds of wings flapped away from the house. The cry could have been Daun. It’s too deep to be his. Too loud. Whatever it was, there could’ve been someone in the house who needed help.

His palms tingled for the feel of Lady Marlay, or at least his hunting knife. Parren’s knife flashed in his mind, nestled safely in a saddlebag. He grimaced and proceeded. He crouched at Daun’s and peeked in. The house was empty, as expected. Every door was open. Furniture lay toppled and broken. Clothing, pots, pans, wool for knitting, and a large amount of food was strewn about. Only the area where the children and Valli had huddled was clean with only a small pile of ashes at the corner of the room.

The wind picked up and chilled the sweat on his brow. He entered the home after another glance around the property. The air was stuffy inside and smelled of old iron. He moved about, careful not to step on the family’s possessions. Something caught his eye beneath the window. Something red.

Blood dripped from the sill and ran down to a thick puddle on the floor. Mak’s hand slapped over his mouth and he exhaled sharply. His eyes wandered and settled on a strand of long, brown hair. “Valli.” Tears stung in his eyes. “What did they do to you?”

His hand dropped. He grew lightheaded and nearly retched. Beside the clump of hair, half soaked in the puddle of blood, lay a pair of smallclothes, torn and ripped by hungry hands. They were too small to be Valli’s.

A gust of wind whistled through the empty house, like ghosts of the pain that had transpired. He thought of Konni and the kids and ran out the door, not bothering to close it. The dry air cleared his lungs of the smell of blood. He ran up the path, indifferent to the noise he made.

Something dark moved to his right. Something large. He slowed his pace. Eyes burned into his back, nearly strong enough to drop him, but he walked. The shape hollered. The sound pushed through Mak’s body, rattling his bones. He stopped and kept his eyes nailed to the gravel at his feet.

It shouted again. Mak flinched. The shape moved closer. Its step sounded more like Butterhoof’s than Mak’s. An unseen force pushed him forward, the same force that prevented one from jumping into a lake from a high rock as a child. It shouted again. Mak’s breath was the only thing faster than his heartbeat. Wet palms clenched into fists, his knees threatened to buckle under the weight of fear, and his shoulder ached more than usual.

“Water!” The voice was dry and wheezy yet as loud as a crowd of men. The previous shouts had sounded similar but less coherent.

Mak turned.

A massive centaur limped toward him, hunched over. Its two arms dangled, still and sickly blue. Long hair, too thick for the hot south, clotted with blood. Its bare, leather-skinned chest was riddled with whip marks and contusions. And a loose gash across its breast sagged like an open pocket.

“Water!” The broad head was wet, covered in slick fur. Its long black tongue lolled, dry like a stranded worm long past the latest rains. Thick strings of blood connected chin to chest, and its dark eyes were swollen nearly shut.

“I don’t have any,” Mak stepped back. He could barely manage a voice through his petrified throat. “There’s a river not far from here. A short walk in that direction.” He pointed between north and west.

“No time.” The words were hard to make out. The centaur stepped onto the path and stopped a couple yards before Mak. It looked him up and down. If it could see from its swollen eyes, Mak didn’t know, but something made it nod. “No time.” Its voice was nearly a whisper. Foul breath turned Mak’s stomach, but he was sure to supress his reaction.

“I’m sorry.” Mak crossed his arms. His heart still thumped hard in his chest. “I’ve got whiskey, if that’ll help.”

The centaur lurched forward. Its torso was dead and limp, held only by the solid stance of its bison-like body.

“Are you alright?” Mak reached to touch the creature on the shoulder.

A blast of rotted breath spewed from the centaur’s cavernous maw. Its knees lost strength, and the creature toppled. Mak jumped back to avoid the unimaginable weight that crashed into gravel. Tiny rocks and dust flew Mak’s way and pinched the skin of his defensive arm. There was complete silence.