A Foolish Wind Read online

  ‘Well, fut off,’ Griff told him.

  ‘He’s paid a flannin’ for a room and breakfast,’ Molly said. ‘He goes in the mornin’.’ The statement was final and offered no invitation for debate.

  Griff swallowed his anger and put away his purpled cheeks—to not do so would incur the wrath of his wife. As he went to lock-up, Brae took a soapy mop to the flagstones, while Pew straightened families of tables and chairs. And Molly—she had a new set of beer pots to worry.

  They tossed a key the druid’s way and nodded towards a door that led to a solid darkness beyond.

  ‘The crossbow stays here,’ Molly told him. ‘You can hang it on that.’ She indicated a rusted nail in the stonework above bottled ales labelled with all manner of fanciful names.

  Tamulan parted with Windsong reluctantly. He whispered and waited to see that Molly handled her with due care and respect. That done, he ducked below the stone lintel and climbed the creaking stairs, picking up immediately on the unmistakable presence of evil within the inn’s upper floor. He placed his winder-light on the tread of a stair and struck a match against the plaster wall. Its flame burned blue and sucked the heat from the surrounding air, a cloying odour of sulphur left in its wake. He’d chosen well: had come to the right place.

  On the landing, he came across three doors and tried the round-key in the lock of the nearest. He withdrew it and moved on to the next. More hospitable than the first, the second lock clicked twice, the door opening with a reluctant judder. Tamulan gripped the small side-handle of his winder-light and rotated it ten or twenty times—he didn’t count—and cut through the darkness with its more powerful beam. The room smelled of neglect and tough times, its eaves pitching severely on one side, leaving room enough for only the smallest of circular windows. A stained and tatty mattress lay on the bare floorboards, straw jutting from its failing seams like that of a long-neglected scarecrow.

  Tamulan had asked for a jug and washbowl, and when he checked found both waiting patiently on a table outside his room. He’d not heard the hollow, wood-on-wood sound of the innkeeper’s crutch on the stairs, and Molly—unlikely. Had he missed the items when he first passed by? He thought not. The storyteller perhaps? Now he was a different thing altogether. Tamulan squatted and lay a thin shim of cold iron on the threshold of his open doorway, swinging the winder-light left and right. Nothing but specs of dust moved on the landing, dancing like fireflies suspended in the prism of light. He moved back inside and used his shoulder to close the stubborn door, spilling a small volume of water in the process. He tipped the remainder from cracked jug to chipped bowl, then cupped his hands and splashed their cold contents on his weary face. He drip-dried as he pushed the mattress towards the circle of flashing light, lowering himself onto it with a weary sigh. Sleep came quickly, though he wished with all his heart that it wouldn’t—that it would leave and never return. But sleep refused to relent and grasped him tightly each and every night, dragging him off to his own place of terrible pain.

  As the druid tossed and turned, the building storm fought dirty and won.

  Chapter

  — 2 —

  They came by night and always did, a dozen or more creatures that skulked from the forest and clung to the sleeping hillside as closely as the rocks abandoned there during a long-forgotten time. They sheltered from the driving rain, cowering as the whip-crack lightning cut through the darkness like strap-leather on bare flesh.

  Taenon pulled at the inn’s front door, chanced his luck and moved on. He paused again, this time at the nearest window, and ran a razor-sharp nail along the underside of its ungiving sash. A strip of paint broke loose from the tired woodwork and sailed on the wind, not stopping once to enquire as to its final destination. Taenon’s four legged shadow followed to the far side of the whitewashed building, to where a downpipe stood rusting against a stained wall. He tugged at the metalwork and found it to be in surprisingly good order—gripped it with bare feet and climbed with the skill of a circus acrobat. He swung onto the roof and negotiated its slippery slate like a dancer skating on ice. But the leader of the night-dwellers was no such thing. He was a common thief and a vicious killer.

  The wet brick of the chimney felt hot to his touch, rain foaming on its rough surface, steam rising with a subtle, yet persistent hiss. Taenon withdrew his hand and knelt alongside a missing slate to tear another from its ineffective fastening. He let it fall and shatter like glass on the courtyard floor below, then lifted one more and reached inside. His followers watched and awaited his command, moving like agitated primates while the dark Gods argued among themselves in the night sky above. Taenon withdrew an empty hand and moved to the roof’s edge, towards a small, round window he’d seen from the roadside—one that was all but hidden beneath the eaves. He lay against the wet slate, hanging like a piece of snared cloth, and wiped at the dirty glass with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. Inside the dark room, a figure shifted position on a thin and uncomfortable looking mattress. Taenon forced his dog-like face against the creaking pane of glass, preparing to strike, readying himself to drag the unfortunate victim kicking and screaming to his horrible death. The sleeper turned, his face illuminated momentarily by the light of the storm. ‘The druid?’ Taenon couldn’t help but speak the words aloud, such was his surprise.

  The thunder rolled and the night sky lit up white, but the rocks stood alone once more and the rooftop ran with nothing but cold rain.

  The tapping noise was annoyingly insistent and came from somewhere up above. Griff rolled in what little space he had available to him and faced Molly. ‘Can’t you hear it?’ he asked, exasperation sounding on his cork dry voice. He shook his head when she didn’t reply and threw his leg over the side of the bed—pushing himself upright with a raucous escape of flatulence. ‘I’m goin’ outside,’ he said offering no apology for the malodorous air he left behind. His foot caught on a length of wayward sheeting, causing him to fall awkwardly against the rickety nightstand. He grabbed at it, knocking a beer pot to the floor, its stale contents staining the oaken boards a darker shade of brown. He leaned on the piece of old furniture, held himself still and breathed deeply.

  Their bedroom was alongside the downstairs kitchen and had been ever since Griff and Pew returned from the war to find an often troubled Molly. The healers in the city had said there was a demon living in his wife’s head; an evil creature that spoke spiteful things and drove her to commit violent acts. They’d wanted to bore a hole in the front part of Molly’s skull to let it out, but Griff would allow no such thing. He’d taken his wife home and put up with her ever-fluctuating episodes of light and shade, hiding the bruises without complaint. He hadn’t seen fit to muster an objection to sleeping downstairs—losing a limb to a rusted bayonet had altered his perspective on what was important in life. He stepped into the lounge and saw the front door swing gently on its hinges, a trio of stout bolts inexplicably drawn from their drilled slots.

  ‘Brae?’ Griff pushed behind the bar and grabbed at the boot thrown there the night before. He leaned against the flaking plaster wall, a fight between man and unforgiving leather. He didn’t wait to tie the wayward laces and headed straight towards the door, his ear tuned to a conversation of muffled voices outside.

  The open doorway framed a horizon line that was as bruised as an over-ripe piece of fruit. A single cloud scudded along on the upper-level wind, surveying the storm-damage before the rest of its kind would dare return.

  Griff stepped into the morning, the gravel giving suddenly beneath the heel of his crutch. He swore loudly as he slipped, then righted himself with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Brae, is that you?’ he asked in a state of rising irritation.

  ‘Mornin’.’ His brother stood in the courtyard wearing work-clothes and a naive smile. The teenager was tall and pale, and thin as a racer snake.

  Griff was about to scold the boy for waking him at such an early hour when he caught sight of the true culprit. ‘What’s he doin’ up there?’ He pointed
at the druid.

  ‘Mendin’ the roof, so he is.’ Brae poked at the shattered pieces of slate with the toe of his boot. ‘Storm took a couple or few.’

  ‘Stealin’ the lead is more like.’ Griff rounded the building for a better view. ‘Have the shirt off your back, so he will.’

  ‘He’s not stealin’.’

  Griff waved a dismissive hand. ‘Travellers are the same the world over. Thieves, the lot of them.’

  ‘But—’

  Griff pushed the ladder to ground. ‘Now he’s done for,’ he said satisfied that it was good and stuck in the mud.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ Brae followed after his brother, skidding on the loose surface as he went.

  Griff headed for the front door of the inn. ‘Fetchin’ my fire-lance, so I am. Should have killed the thievin’ sod in his sleep.’

  ‘You can’t shoot him,’ Brae said waving his arms in warning.

  Griff returned carrying a length of hollow pipe and stopped only to satisfy himself that his quarry had ignored his brother’s traitorous attempts to shoo him away. ‘Hold me still.’ He rammed a mixture of black powder, gunshot and felt wadding down the barrel.

  ‘Aw, Griff don’t.’ Brae ducked, hands planted firmly over his ears. The shot reverberated off the hillside as loudly as a hammer hit hard against a barn door, the sky awash with scattering birds.

  ‘Did I get him?’ The blast had upended the innkeeper and he lay on his back in the wet dirt, chuckling madly. He pushed himself into a sitting position and reloaded before his target could escape. He fired a second time, the upper side-window taking the brunt of it, the room beyond showered with daggers of sharp glass. He reached into the powder-bag for the third time but had the fire-lance snatched from his sweaty grip and felt its full weight strike across his shoulders. ‘Brae,’ he called, ‘help me.’

  ‘You’ll need more than that skinny halfwit,’ Molly told him, breathless from the ferocity of her attack.

  ‘He’s thievin’,’ Griff shrieked and ducked beneath a second swipe of the fire-lance. He dragged himself across the wet gravel, skinning both elbows and his only knee as survival instinct kicked in. Molly was onto him and the innkeeper knew from experience that she didn’t give up until she’d beaten him senseless.

  ‘Stop her,’ Brae called to the druid, moving about the courtyard with the mannerisms of a startled squirrel. ‘She’s gonna kill him.’

  ‘The ladder.’ Tamulan inched his way towards the roof’s edge. ‘Put it against the wall.’ Molly was making ground on Griff and she slapped the pipe against the palm of her hand with an unnecessary show of menace. Brae heaved at the wooden frame—a tug of war between teenager and mud. ‘It’s too heavy.’

  There were few options left open to Griff and so he threw himself towards the empty vegetable boxes stacked high against the back wall of the inn. He took a quick look over his injured shoulder and pushed deeper until all further routes of escape were well and truly blocked.

  Tamulan slid along the roof on hands and heels, rolled onto his front and lowered himself feet first over the edge of the building. He felt for the sill with the toe of his boot and gasped when the slate broke free in his hand. He let go and leapt towards the downpipe, hit it hard and swung out of the way of the falling slate. Righting himself, he took a couple of deep breaths before releasing his grip and falling to the floor. He bent his knees on impact and let himself roll sideways onto the gravel—the manoeuvre sparing him the inconvenience of shattered ankles and spoiled knees.

  Molly hammered through the boxes as though cutting a new jungle trail, and woe betide the natives when she got there. But just then a hand rested on her shoulder and a voice spoke gentle words. There it was again—warm syrup and something else that she just couldn’t explain; like a slight of hand but with use of language instead. She didn’t know why but the dark clouds lifted whenever the druid spoke. Tamulan reached for the fire-lance and met no resistance when he took it from her.

  Griff waited a good few minutes of silent calm before appearing in the open air. He sat in a puddle, breathing heavily as he wiped his sweaty brow.

  Brae crouched, walking-crutch in hand. ‘We should take her back to the healers, Griff. Have them let it out.’ He helped his brother onto his foot while Molly approached, arms extended, tears rolling down her plump cheeks.

  ‘I won’t listen to such loose talk,’ Griff warned, swatting him away with the back of his hand. ‘Molly’s my wife—the good and the bad.’ He turned to face Tamulan. ‘You,’ he called loudly.

  ‘I know. Wint ne fut.’

  ‘Aye.’ Griff dusted bits of wet gravel off his clothing. ‘But you’ve earned yourself a couple of plump sausages before you go.’

  ‘You owe him a lot more than that, so you do.’ Brae hung back to speak with Tamulan, letting Griff and Molly disappear inside together. ‘I’ve read of that language,’ he said. ‘Not the Olluin—the other one.’

  Tamulan licked at the cuts on his hands. He said nothing and followed the innkeeper and his wife.

  The day passed easily enough. Tamulan took breakfast and accepted Molly’s kind invitation to stay a while longer. Griff grumbled though hadn’t dared say a word against the matter. Brae swept the bedroom floor before going to work the morning at Watty’s Forge, and Pew called in from the farm to replace the shattered window.

  It was late afternoon as they prepared for evening opening, a dark gloom outside draining all colour from the surrounding countryside. Brae squatted before the choking fire, poking at it with a long iron. That being unsuccessful, he took a bellows and blew ash everywhere. ‘It just won’t light,’ he complained.

  ‘Look at the mess,’ Molly scolded, waving a cloth about like a flag at a parade.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Griff asked. ‘You get Watty’s fire good and hot.’

  ‘Not the same type,’ Brae told him.

  ‘Bollocks,’ Griff snapped. ‘Fire’s fire, so it is.’

  ‘There’s good and bad fire.’ Brae poked at it, achieving no more success. He dropped the iron onto the hearth and sat back on the floor, defeated.

  Tamulan rose with the sound of wood shifting on stone. Molly planted her elbows on the shiny surface of the bar, face cupped in hands, eyes unable to look away as the druid crossed the room with a confident swagger.

  Brae made no claim on the iron poker as Tamulan bent and took it. ‘It’s not like the one at the forge,’ he explained. ‘This one’s a bugger to light and smells like Griff’s arse.’

  ‘Fetch me more logs from the bucket,’ Tamulan told him.

  ‘There’s too many on there as it is,’ Griff said. ‘It’s more kindlin’ you want, not wood.’

  Tamulan cupped both hands loosely and rubbed in a circular motion.

  ‘The man has no idea what he’s doin’,’ Griff said moving closer to get a better view.

  ‘None at all,’ Pew agreed adjusting the position of his own chair.

  Tamulan opened his hands to reveal a glowing ember that was as large as a plump grape. He tilted his palm and let it fall among the logs, then leaned and blew on it gently.

  ‘A sorcerer,’ Pew whispered as the fireplace erupted with hot flame.

  ‘A bar-room trick is all,’ Tamulan told them. ‘You see only what I want you to see.’

  Griff tugged at his beard and thought for a while. ‘You like playin’ games?’ he asked suddenly, his mood somewhat brighter. ‘Then why don’t you show me that fat purse of coins, and we’ll play us some squares.’

  The inn filled with its regular crowd. Madoc sat in his usual place next to the fire, a few of his farm hands leaning on the bar, racing each other through an impressive line-up of liqueur shots. On a chair in the far corner of the room stood a mad woman named Girl. She was rough as old socks and played from a repertoire of imaginary musical instruments. The fire roared, ale flowed and the smell of pork crackling had everyone salivating like dogs.

  ‘Right you are,’ Griff said. ‘Starts with a flannin’
a game.’

  Tamulan took a rouleau of coins from his purse and arranged them on the table by denomination. ‘Your currency still baffles me,’ he said examining each coin in turn. Griff stifled a grin and glanced at Pew, a wayward arch to his bushy eyebrow.

  Brae leaned over the board. ‘The large brass ones are flannings.’ He emphasised the letter g.

  Griff ground his teeth. ‘I was goin’ to tell him.’

  ‘The smaller, silver coins are shillbobs,’ Brae said. ‘And then there’s the glints—the gold shiny ones.’

  ‘Three flannin’s make a shillbob.’ Pew joined in and used his fingers to help the druid follow. ‘Five shillbobs in a glint.’

  Griff glared at him and raised his hands to the heavens. ‘For the love of God.’

  ‘So that’s fifteen flannings in a glint?’ Tamulan said, nodding.

  ‘Off course not,’ Brae answered and shook his head. ‘If you want a glint in exchange for flannin’s, then it’ll cost you twenty.’

  ‘Six each,’ Griff shouted, pointing at twelve wooden discs on the board in front of them. ‘I’m black.’ He lined his own in single file along the back line of the nearside of the board. ‘You’re white.’ He pushed Tamulan’s discs towards him and indicated that he arrange them in the same way. Ready to begin at last, the innkeeper caught his brother’s eye and had him leave. Pew lay his hand on the teenager’s shoulder and led him away before he could protest.

  Griff used the tip of his finger to slide a black disc forward two squares. He placed both elbows on the table and leaned so close that his beard almost tickled the druid’s chin. ‘Is it true what they say about you?’ His voice was barely audible above the raucous cheers of the farm hands and the loud drum solo played by Girl.