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Jan 31

They haven’t seen it yet. She has. And I’m deeply grateful to @playpausephoto for catching what the forest only whispered.

Hearth and Kin – Part XIV

Forest Folk

—

The sound of wood striking wood rang across the yard.

With a sharp cry, Pavel swung wide — and Lukas darted back, just in time. He turned, braced for a counterblow — but missed. His blade merely glanced off the side of Pavel’s.

Another step back, this one less certain. The wooden edge sliced past his temple so close he felt it in the hairs above his ear.

Then came the next strike — and this time, it landed.

It caught him on the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to stagger him.

Pavel cheered and laughed aloud. “Ha!”

Lukas doubled over, one hand on his knee, the other raised in surrender. His breathing was ragged. Sweat had begun to bead along his temples. His eyes were red — and then, without warning, a harsh fit of coughing overtook him. His whole body shook with it, and colour rushed to his cheeks until they were flushed and burning.

Pavel lowered his sword at once. Laughed again — but this time, with uncertainty. He watched Lukas, his brow furrowing.

“Wait,” he said at last, and turned on his heel. He ran toward the main wing and vanished through the kitchen door.

Lukas sank down on the bench by the wall. His sword lay beside him, forgotten.

Mutt came trotting up, gave his knee a soft nudge with his nose, and flopped down in the shade beneath the bench, laying his head across Lukas’s foot. Lukas reached down, almost absently, and began to scratch behind the dog’s ear with slow, gentle fingers.

Pavel reappeared moments later with a small jug of beer — pale and lightly fragrant with yeast and herbs.

He handed it over without a word.

Lukas took it and drank deep. The coolness spread down his throat. Ale trickled down his chin. His chest heaved with each breath.

Then he set the jug aside, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked up at Pavel.

His eyes were red, glistening from the tears the coughing had brought on.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

He coughed again — twice — this time more quietly. Then gave his chest a quick thump with his fist.

“It’s that blasted smoke from the barn,” he muttered.

Pavel sat down beside him, careful and quiet.

He didn’t say a word — just watched him from the side.

After a moment, Lukas caught the glance. He turned his head slowly and gave a crooked little grin.

“What are you staring at?”

Pavel huffed, dropped his gaze to his knees, and brushed dust from his trousers.

Then he looked up again, his expression unreadable — as though something had taken root and wouldn’t leave him alone.

“I still can’t make sense of it,” he said. “You went in — into the flames. Just like that.”

Lukas dropped his gaze. Rubbed his palms together, slow and steady. Pressed his thumbs into the knuckles.

“They had animals in there,” he said at last, quietly. “Horses. A sow. Piglets. Their livelihood.”

He fell silent.

Only the breeze stirred the courtyard now — dancing with the dust, lifting their hair.

“You could’ve died in there,” Pavel said after a while, softer now.

Lukas straightened slowly.

Met his eyes. Smiled — and gave him a gentle punch in the arm.

“But I didn’t, did I?”

They both laughed. Lukas coughed again, but this time only briefly.

He drew a long breath, leaned forward on his elbows, and reached for the jug. Drank once more, then set it down at his feet and wiped his mouth.

“I fear I won’t be much use for sword practice for a few more days, Pavel,” he said wearily.

Pavel studied him for a moment.

Then, suddenly — “What about a hunt?”

Lukas turned his head.

Pavel shrugged and gave a crooked little grin. “You can still shoot, can’t you?” The afternoon sun poured over the pale sandstone cliffs, rising between the treetops like quiet towers. Their flanks gleamed with a warm sheen. A soft wind stirred the pines, filling the air with the scent of resin, needles, and the fading breath of spring. To the east, the rock dropped away in a steep fall toward the forest — and beyond that, to the fields and meadows of the valley, rippling beneath a veil of green haze.

Lukas and Pavel lay sprawled on the rocky ledge, propped up on their elbows, letting the sunlight warm them. Beside them, in the grass, lay three freshly caught hares — limbs splayed, bellies still faintly warm.

A little way off, beneath the trees, Mutt lay flat on his stomach, panting with his tongue out, lazily swatting at the occasional fly.

Pavel chewed on a blade of grass, rolling it between his teeth. Lukas stared up at the sky — flawless and blue. At its centre, high above, a dark shape circled with quiet, steady grace.

“Think you could shoot a buzzard with a bow?” he asked, tilting his head toward Pavel.

Pavel squinted upward, tracked the bird for a while, then snorted. “At that height? You’d be wasting an arrow. Wouldn’t hit it even with a crossbow.”

He stretched with a groan, joints cracking faintly, and sat up. He pulled the grass stem from his mouth, glanced skyward again, and narrowed his eyes.

“And that’s not a common buzzard anyhow. Look at the head — that’s a honey buzzard.”

Lukas tilted his head. “A honey buzzard?”

Pavel gave a faint smile. “Strange bird. Digs in the dirt like a boar and hunts wasps.”

Lukas burst out laughing — loud, brief, and incredulous. “You’re yanking my pizzle.”

Pavel looked offended. “I swear on it. Saw it myself. The wasps don’t bother it. It’s… blessed or something.”

He shook his head, stood up, brushed off his trousers, and looked around. The wind tugged at his hair.

“Either way, you’d never reach it.”

He reached for his bow, then turned and nodded toward a spot just above the treeline below.

“See that spruce?”

Lukas stood and joined him, squinting in the direction he meant.

“The cones at the top?” he guessed.

Pavel nodded. “Ay.”

He raised the bow, drew the string — slow, smooth, deliberate. The air fell still. He aimed — held it forever — then loosed.

The arrow cut the silence in a single swift note — and a cone snapped loose from the branch and vanished into the dark undergrowth.

Lukas gave a low nod of approval.

For a moment, they stood in silence.

“Where’d you learn all that?” Lukas asked. “About animals. And how to shoot like that.”

Pavel scratched his head. He hesitated.

“I used to poach,” he said quietly.

His gaze drifted down the slope. His voice had gone soft. “To feed my mother and the little ones.”

Lukas rested a hand on his shoulder. He said nothing.

“That’s how I met Lord Hans and Henry,” Pavel went on. “They caught me in the woods near Rattay.”

Lukas looked at him, surprised. “But that could’ve got you—”

Pavel nodded and ran a hand across his neck. “It was mostly Henry…. I mean Lord Henry. He spoke up for me. And Lord Hans gave me work and a place at Pirkstein.”

He turned toward the cliff edge. The fields below shimmered with heat, swaying in slow waves.

“And then…” he added with a small smile, glancing back at Lukas, “They brought me here, too.”

Lukas gazed past Pavel’s shoulder, out toward the place where the forest pulled back from the edge of the cliff, and the light broke gently against the distant treetops.

“Do you ever feel homesick?” he asked.

Pavel turned and looked out across the valley. The wind tousled his hair, but he stood still. Then, after a pause, he gave a small shrug.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly, turning back toward him. He took a few steps and sat down on the rock, elbows resting on his knees. Lukas followed and lowered himself across from him.

Pavel rubbed his hands together, slow and thoughtful.

“My mother. I miss her sometimes,” he said softly. “She stayed behind in the village when I left for Pirkstein. But I used to visit, now and then.”

He fell quiet.

Then a faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “And sometimes… I miss Radmila.”

Lukas raised an eyebrow slightly. “And who’s that?”

Pavel glanced over and waved it off. “She was my girl. In Rattay. But she dropped me before I left.”

He stretched his back, sat up straight, and tilted his head toward the sun.

“Still… the girls in Klokotsch are much prettier.”

He laughed — openly, easily, without sorrow. Lukas only shook his head with a smile.

Pavel leaned in a little.

“I bet you’ve had your fair share, haven’t you?” he said in a conspiratorial tone, throwing him a wink.

Lukas dropped his eyes to the side.

“Or are you being faithful to your dear Marketa?” Pavel teased, laughing again.

“I mean, I—” Lukas began, but Pavel cut him off.

“Listen, if I had a lass like the butcher’s daughter, I wouldn’t be chasing after others either.”

He leaned back on his elbows again, face turned up to the sky. Lukas looked away, toward the trees. His eyes had gone quiet.

“So… when’s the wedding?” Pavel asked.

Lukas rose slowly. He crossed his arms and looked down into the valley.

“There won’t be one,” he said after a moment.

Then he turned back. His eyes were calm — yet veiled.

“I called it off.”

Pavel straightened. Leaning forward, he stared at him wide-eyed.

Lukas looked down.

“Father was furious,” he muttered.

Pavel shook his head. “But why?”

Lukas exhaled hard. Then looked back at him — not directly, but with a kind of honesty that didn’t need eye contact.

“I’m still young. I want to live a little. Meet people. See other places.”

He turned again toward the open view. Sunlight lit his face, but his gaze reached beyond it.

“Maybe I could become a knight.”

The words came softly — like a thought that had slipped from his mouth before he meant to say it aloud.

He looked back at Pavel.

“I just don’t want to get stuck already. Here. In Klokotsch.”

Pavel said nothing.

He just watched him — eyes narrowed, but attentive.

The silence stretched long.

Then Pavel gave a stretch of his own.

“So…” he began slowly, as if tasting the shape of the words, “That means… the butcher’s Marketa is free?”

Lukas stared at him.

Then broke into laughter. “You lusty fool—!”

He tackled him to the ground and began mock-punching his shoulders.

Pavel flailed, half-laughing, half-struggling beneath him.

When they finally sat up again, their shoulders still shook with laughter. They sat side by side, catching their breath.

“You do realise she’s older than you?” Lukas asked at last.

Pavel gave a sheepish shrug and grin.

Lukas chuckled and shook his head slightly.

“Well then,” he said, nodding faintly, “If you want to court her — be my guest.”

He looked around at the trees.

The light had begun to tilt westward.

“We should head down for the horses,” he said. “And start making our way back.” At the base of the cliff, where moss crept thick between low ferns and the forest grew dense, the horses waited.

They stood quietly, tethered to a tree, and greeted the lads with soft snorts as they came near.

Lukas reached out to stroke his gelding’s brow, then bent to the saddle. He tied the hares with care — one by one, each by the hind legs. As he tightened the strap, a shaft of light slid across his back.

Sunlight pierced the canopy only in places — long, golden fingers reaching down between the trunks, brushing leaves, moss, and the tips of drifting shadows.

Pavel had already mounted. He sat upright, but his eyes kept darting among the trees. The way he stared into the gloom seemed almost involuntary — as if he were searching for something, without knowing what.

And then he froze.

His whole frame stiffened in the saddle. His brows drew tight. His mouth fell open just a little.

Slowly, he leaned forward, as if it might help him focus. His breathing grew shallow. His gaze locked in one direction.

“Did you see it too?” he asked tensely.

Lukas didn’t look up. He was still fastening the last buckle.

“See what?” he called back.

“There. Between the trees.”

Pavel raised a hand and pointed — straight ahead, into the thick dark between the trunks. The woods grew denser there, and the light barely touched the ground.

Lukas turned to look. He said nothing. All was still. Just wind. Just the hush of leaves.

“What am I meant to see?” he asked at last.

Pavel drew the reins and cautiously backed his horse a few paces for a clearer view. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“It was like… something moved,” he said softly. “Something black. Big. It stopped. And then it was gone.”

Lukas looked at him. His face gave nothing away.

“You sure?”

Pavel gave a half-shrug. “I saw something,” he murmured.

Lukas tilted his head. “Could’ve been a boar?” he offered — in a tone that hoped for agreement.

But Pavel shook his head. Slowly. Uncertain.

Lukas’s eyes flicked to Mutt.

The dog stood nearly motionless — head aimed into the trees, the fur along his neck faintly raised.

“Well,” Lukas said quietly, mounting up, “time we rode home.”

Pavel nodded.

He glanced back once more — but there was nothing there. Only forest. Darkening. Still.

His hand dropped instinctively to the hunting sword at his side. Fingers found the hilt, wrapped around it for just a breath.

Then he nudged his horse forward and caught up with Lukas, who had already ridden into the trees.

They rode in silence.

The forest thickened around them, grew quieter still — even the horses slowed. When they reached a small clearing, Lukas suddenly jerked hard on the reins.

His horse reared, let out a sharp whinny. Lukas barely kept his seat — the world tilted beneath him.

Pavel reined in a few paces behind.

Lukas looked over his shoulder. His eyes were wide. His breath came fast.

He dismounted in one swift motion, drew his sword with a sharp rasp of steel, and gripped the hilt tightly.

Pavel hesitated — then slid down and followed him.

At the edge of the clearing, Lukas slowed his steps. He stopped. Planted his feet. Breathed through his nose.

Pavel stepped up beside him.

Mutt pressed against Lukas’s leg, letting out a low, steady growl.

In the centre of the clearing — in the heart of the grass where only a thread of sunlight filtered through the canopy — lay a body.

Still. Headless.

Pavel forgot to breathe.

Lukas took a step.

Then another. Quiet. Careful.

Close enough now — he saw more.

Blood pooled beneath the torso. A wound in the chest — deep, torn wide. The severed spine, caked in mud. And near it — scraps of what had once been a cap.

Mutt moved forward, cautious, nose to the ground, following the scent.

Lukas turned. His eyes swept the trees. Every branch. Every shadow.

“Christ Almighty…” came a voice behind him.

He turned again.

Pavel stood with a hand pressed to his mouth. He was white as chalk.

Lukas stepped toward him. His voice was tight, low.

“What exactly did you see earlier?”

Pavel shook his head. “It was… unclear. Just… something large. Black.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes.

“A man? A rider?” he asked — urgent now.

Pavel swallowed. “Maybe.”

Lukas turned back to the body.

On its side, a pouch still hung from a belt. The tunic — filthy, ripped — bore visible embroidery in red and green.

Lukas leaned down. He didn’t touch it. Only looked — close and sure.

“That’s Medek,” he muttered. “A farmhand. From Klokotsch.”

He spun around, gaze sharp, breath caught. The air had grown heavy.

He seized Pavel’s shoulder.

“We ride to the village,” he said, firm and clear.

He cast one last glance back — then strode toward the horses.

They rode without a word. Fast, focused — hooves soft on the moss, clinking now and then against a root, but little else.

Pavel looked back over his shoulder.

The forest had changed.

It was darker than it should have been — not by sun, not by hour, but by something else.

It felt… foreign. As if it no longer knew them. As if it did.

He squinted ahead. Beyond the trunks, a glimmer of light. Open ground. A meadow.

Just a few dozen paces now — and then… a breath.

A real breath. The first since the clearing.

They emerged from the woods.

The meadow stretched before them — golden in the afternoon light. Tall grass. Gentle sun. Air again.

They halted — only for a moment.

Lukas looked toward the village, not far ahead. Then turned to Pavel.

“We find my father.”

Pavel nodded.

He didn’t speak. Just urged his horse forward — and they rode down, toward Klokotsch. They found the bailiff at the edge of the village.

Vatzek was speaking with a broad-shouldered farmhand beside a wooden cart, gesturing wide with his arms.

He turned at the sound of approaching hooves.

His gaze swept over Lukas — a faint frown creased his brow.

Lukas was already dismounting, even before the horse had fully stopped. He strode toward him without pause.

“Father—” he began, tense.

“I’m in the middle of something,” Vatzek snapped, turning back to the man.

For a moment.

Then a hand touched his shoulder.

He turned again.

Lukas stood close — too close — and looked him straight in the eye.

“Da…” he said softly. “It’s urgent.”

Vatzek grumbled under his breath, waved a hand, and muttered an apology to the man — said he’d be back in a moment, that this couldn’t wait.

Then he followed Lukas a few steps down the path.

By the fence, beneath an old apple tree, stood Pavel. He was holding both horses. His hands were trembling, just slightly.

Vatzek looked him over.

Then turned back to Lukas.

“Well?” he barked.

Lukas drew a long breath. “We found a body. Mutilated.”

The bailiff went still.

“In the woods. Below the cliffs,” Lukas added.

Vatzek stared at him — sharp-eyed, searching.

Lukas dropped his gaze. But only briefly.

Then he lifted it again. “I believe it was Medek.”

Vatzek blinked, then shook his head faintly. “You believe?” he echoed, almost scoffing.

“The body had no head,” Pavel said quietly.

Vatzek turned to him — slowly.

His gaze travelled from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots.

He stared for a long moment.

Then turned back to Lukas.

“Take me there,” he said — quiet, but firm. “At once.” The forest sank into dusk.

The path slowed of its own accord. The horses made no sound, their hooves soft as if walking on moss. Each step melted into the hush of wind stirring high among the leaves. No birds sang from the trees now. Only the whispering. Only shadows.

The clearing opened before them suddenly.

Small. Forgotten. Ringed by woods — close and dark. Overhead, a scrap of sky remained, but fading fast. The sun had dropped behind the ridge, leaving only a breath of bluish light, thin and grey, spilling sideways like the ghost of air.

A final islet of light in the deepening forest.

An islet — and upon it, nothing.

All three dismounted.

Lukas pointed ahead, to the centre of the meadow.

“It was here,” he said. “I swear it.”

His voice held urgency — and caught at the end.

Vatzek didn’t answer.

He stepped forward slowly, his boots brushing through the grass. At the centre he stopped, sank to one knee, and passed a hand over the earth. The air was thick. The silence deeper than before.

He lifted his palm.

On his fingers — a dark gleam of red.

He stared at it for a long while, as if to be certain. Then stood, moved a few paces to the side, and bent again.

In the grass lay a cap. Torn. Stained. Dried blood crusted in the seams.

He picked it up. Turned it over in his fingers, examining each stitch, each border, each mark.

Then he slowly raised his head. His eyes followed the treetops — and dusk creeping between them like mist.

The forest stood like a wall. Alive. Impassable. And closer than before.

Vatzek returned. He held the cap in his hand. His face was stone.

He stopped in front of them.

“How long since you found him?” he asked.

Lukas parted his lips, but the answer came slow. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Not long. We rode for you straight after.”

Vatzek gave a nod.

He meant to speak again — but another voice cut in. Quiet. Cautious.

“Master Vatzek…” Pavel said.

The bailiff turned toward him.

“Just before we found the body…” Pavel swallowed. “I saw something. In the woods.”

Vatzek stepped toward him.

He gripped his shoulders — firmer than he needed to.

“What did you see?” he asked — soft, but insistent.

Pavel exhaled. His eyes were wide. His face pale.

“Something moved between the trees,” he said. “Something black. Something big.”

Vatzek stared at him a moment in silence.

Then came a sound. Low. Slow. A growl from Mutt, who stood between them, ears pricked.

Their eyes dropped to him.

And from the forest — far off, deep within the dark where no light reached — a sound answered.

Faint. Almost inaudible.

But clear.

A whinny.

Short. Quiet.

All three froze.

Then Vatzek straightened.

“To Klokotsch,” he said. “Now.”

They rode in a line.

Lukas first. Then Pavel. And at the rear, Vatzek — broad, silent, a looming shadow that closed the procession like a final gate.

The forest was dark. The shadows between the trees had long since melted into a single mass. The silence was deep and close. Only the muffled thud of hooves. The occasional snort. They followed not a path, but a direction — guided by hints of light. Wherever a dim sheen slipped for the briefest moment between the branches, they pressed on.

With every step, they grew faster.

Not by choice. As though something pulled at them.

Lukas strained his eyes ahead.

And then—

A crack. A cry. A sudden stampede.

He yanked the reins — the horse slipped on damp earth, stumbled. He turned in the saddle — and saw, in the blur of darkness, Pavel flung sideways from his mount, crashing down onto his side.

He leapt down at once. Ran back — ferns whipping at his calves.

Pavel lay in the grass, rigid. His eyes wide, his breath uneven.

“Pavel!”

Lukas dropped to his knees beside him.

His face was pale and shaken. Blood bloomed above his right brow — a thin line that ran along his temple.

“Branch,” Pavel muttered. “Didn’t see it.”

From the thickening dark came Vatzek — horse behind him, eyes wide, scanning.

“Can you ride, lad?” he asked, crouching low. His voice had softened.

Pavel tried to rise — but faltered. Lukas caught him just in time. His weight folded into his arms.

He looked around. Only shadow. Only rustling. Only breath.

“I’ll take you,” Lukas said firmly.

He swung back into the saddle. Vatzek supported Pavel, then helped lift him forward. Lukas pulled him close with one arm, took the reins with the other. Pavel slumped against his chest — heavy, but breathing.

“Hold on.”

He urged the horse forward.

Vatzek followed — and behind him, Pavel’s loose horse trotted faithfully like a shadow.

They rode fast — no longer among the trees, but beneath them. The forest was breaking. The dark was thinning.

And then — suddenly — it let them go.

They broke onto open ground.

The meadow rolled in gentle waves beneath a faint breeze. Below them lay the village — lights flickering, dim but present. Across the valley, the moon had just begun to rise — pale, sharp-edged, pouring a silvery sheen over the grass. The shadows bled outward. The night took shape.

“Lukas!”

The bailiff’s voice rang clear across the meadow.

Lukas turned his head.

“Ride to the manor — find Captain Thomas!” Vatzek called.

Lukas nodded.

“I’ll follow,” the bailiff added — then spurred his horse and galloped toward the village.

Lukas looked down at Pavel — still upright before him. Then clicked his tongue, nudged his mount, and turned right — toward the manor. The great hall of the Klokotsch manor felt unusually close that evening — cloaked in the flickering light of torches and candles. Everything echoed hollow: footsteps, breath, the soft clink of a bowl against the edge of a bench.

Thomas paced beside the table, arms folded, his face drawn tight.

“Could it have been bandits?” he asked, half to himself. He halted and looked toward the bench along the far wall.

Pavel sat there, slightly hunched. A bloody gash marked his brow, and his eyes were dulled with fatigue. Godwin knelt beside him — a bowl of water in one hand, a cloth in the other — and gently cleaned the wound.

Pavel hissed through his teeth.

“Hold still, boy,” the priest muttered without looking up. “Or half the forest’ll stay in your skull.”

Lukas stood nearby. In shadow. Unmoving.

His arms hung at his sides, his gaze fixed on nothing.

“He didn’t look robbed,” he said at last. “And why would bandits take his head? And where’s the body now?”

Thomas inhaled and let the breath out through his nose — slow, quiet. His eyes drifted to the stone wall, where the torchlight flickered like a warning.

“After all the wars…” he murmured, “there’s all sorts of scum roaming the hills. Starving men. Desperate.”

Lukas didn’t speak right away. He stood still — then stepped forward, slowly, out of the dark and into the light.

“Maybe not just men,” he said softly.

Thomas turned toward him, frowning slightly, his head tilting just so.

Lukas gestured slightly toward Pavel.

“Before we found the body… Pavel saw something. In the woods. Something. Or someone.”

Pavel looked up at him, then back to Thomas, and nodded.

“There was something there, captain,” he said quietly. “Something big. Black.”

Lukas stood beside him, eyes locked on Thomas.

“Maybe a rider,” he added. Barely a whisper.

Thomas didn’t move. He stared. His expression unchanged. But the silence between them pulled taut. Heavy. Dense.

“A black rider?” he said at last, slow and measured.

Lukas gave the faintest shrug. But didn’t look away.

Godwin was watching from the side. His hand had frozen mid-motion. Worry flickered in his eyes.

“I get the sense,” he said slowly, “that you two know something I don’t.”

Thomas turned to him. And nodded once.

Then looked toward the door. Briefly. Decisively.

“I’m doubling the watch tonight. In the manor. In the village.”

He turned back to the priest.

“Come with me. I’ll tell you.”

Godwin gave a silent nod and rose to his feet.

As they reached the door, Thomas cast one last glance over his shoulder at the two boys.

“And you two — off to bed,” he said. “We’ll speak to Lady Jitka in the morning.” Thomas and Godwin stepped into the courtyard just as the bailiff rode in through the gate.

The horse beneath him was lathered and breathing hard, but Vatzek dismounted before it had even come to a full stop. Without a word, he walked forward — not fast, but with purpose — and came to stand before them.

“It was Medek,” he said, breath low.

Thomas gave a slow nod. He said nothing. But the look on his face said enough.

“I spoke with Prokop, the farmer,” Vatzek went on. “Medek went into the woods after midday. Gathering kindling. He never came back.”

Godwin crossed himself in silence.

Thomas drew a quiet breath.

“Lukas told me everything.”

He paused — as if some part of it still echoed within him. At last, he met Vatzek’s eyes.

“He’s a remarkably sharp and brave young man.”

The bailiff lowered his gaze for a moment — then lifted it again. He nodded once, in the hush. “I know.”

Thomas looked around the courtyard — the flickering torches, the watchmen by the wall.

“Before the night’s out, I’ll send six more men down to guard the village,” he said.

Vatzek nodded again. “Thank you.”

Thomas glanced toward the gate, then to the men flanking it, and finally back to the others.

“Come,” he said softly.

He turned and made his way toward the stair that led up to the battlements.

They followed him. The stone beneath their feet was dry and cold. A wind met them at the top — sharp and clear.

The valley stretched before them in shades of silver-grey. Meadows, roads, rooftops. The forests beyond lay like ink spilled across parchment.

The land looked like a painting. Like something dreamt. From somewhere else.

Thomas stood in silence for a time.

Then he spoke — slowly, as if still deciding how to shape the words.

“At the fire… this past Sunday. In Lautschky.”

A pause.

“There was an old woman there.”

His eyes moved over the valley. He gave a faint shake of the head.

“She was raving. Something about the devil.”

He cast a brief look at Godwin.

“A black rider,” he finished.

The two men watched him. Saying nothing.

“I don’t know what it is, Vatzek,” he said at last. “But in my experience… flesh and blood alone can do terrible things.”

His gaze drifted across the darkness — to the far edge of the forest.

Vatzek turned to the priest.

“Father… could you say a protective mass tomorrow?”

Godwin scratched his head, narrowed his eyes.

Then nodded. “I’ll hold a mass to Saint Michael the Archangel.”

The bailiff nodded in turn. Slowly. He crossed himself — deliberate, thoughtful.

“And I…” Thomas said, “I’ll ride to the castle at first light — to fetch Sir Hynek.”

He gave a bitter, crooked smile.

“Whether it’s man or devil we’re facing… I’d rather have one of each at my side.”

Godwin drew in breath — as if to speak.

Then bowed his head. And nodded silently. The great hall of the Klokotsch manor lay in the dim wash of grey morning light seeping through the windows.

“Should we not send word to Rattay?” Godwin asked.

His voice was soft, yet it struck the quiet like flint. He sat at the table, hands folded, eyes fixed on Jitka across from him.

She sat upright, hands resting loosely on the table. Her face was tired, but calm. Her gaze watchful.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Off to the side stood Dry Devil, arms crossed over his chest. He narrowed his eyes.

“How long have they been gone?” he muttered. “A week? Ten days, maybe?”

Jitka turned to him, thoughtful. Then gave a small, measured nod.

She looked back to Godwin.

“I believe Hans and Henry are already on their way home.”

She paused.

“I hope,” she added, more quietly.

Dry Devil stepped closer. He planted both hands on the table and looked to Thomas, who stood silent by the window.

“Thomas… You and your men. You’re the shield around this hall. And around Jitka.”

His gaze drifted back to the window. Outside, the air hung heavy and grey with mist. A few guards stood posted in the yard.

“Turn this place into a fortress. One no devil could take.”

Thomas nodded. “You have my word.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Jitka. She gave the faintest nod in return. Her lips hinted at a smile — small, but sure.

“And I…” Hynek continued, straightening as he clasped his hands behind his back, “will comb the entire land with the castle garrison. Every tree.”

His face curved into a grim half-smile.

“We’ll see what kind of devil this really is,” he said hoarsely.

Jitka shifted. Stretched her back — then absently laid a hand on her belly. Her gaze had grown intent. And restless.

“And what am I meant to do?” she asked simply.

Dry Devil turned to her. This time, his smile softened — and something real passed through it.

“My dearest niece… with all the respect I truly hold for you,” he said steadily, “I’d ask you to stay out of harm’s way.”

A pause.

“Here.”

Jitka’s brow furrowed. She didn’t answer — but her breath came a touch heavier.

Godwin reached out. His hand rested lightly on her forearm.

“Hynek is right,” he said.

His voice was quiet. But firm.

Jitka lifted her gaze to his.

She sighed. Didn’t speak for a moment. Then turned slowly to Dry Devil.

“But I will attend the mass,” she said.

Her voice was calm. Steady. And final. In the courtyard outside the inn at Zhelejov, puddles mirrored the dull, overcast sky in muted tones of pewter and smoke.

Now and then, a gust of wind stirred their surface — long and cold, with an edge of impatience. From inside, through the open doorway, drifted the soft bubbling of thick soup simmering over the fire. The scent of garlic, marjoram, and meat hung in the damp morning air, slow and heavy.

The innkeeper was wiping down the tables and benches — coarse cloth in knotted hands, his movements shaped by long habit.

When Henry stepped outside, his hair still tousled from sleep and his eyes half-lidded, the man gave him a brief, respectful nod.

“Jesus Christ be praised,” Henry replied with easy warmth, and made his way to the trough.

He cupped his hands and splashed water over his face — quickly, with a sharp intake of breath. Droplets ran down his jaw, through his beard, and onto the front of his shirt. He stayed bent over for a moment, then straightened and wiped his hands on his breeches.

Hans appeared in the doorway.

He paused on the threshold, arms folded, his brow faintly furrowed. He looked up at the sky. The wind toyed with his hair, and now and then a single drop landed on his cheek.

“Did my lords sleep well?” the innkeeper asked, drying his hands on the cloth.

Hans drew breath, hesitated.

“Undoubtedly the finest inn in all of Zhelejov,” he muttered at last.

Henry gave a quiet laugh by the trough. He turned back toward the man.

“Tell me, innkeeper… Anything new in the area? Any talk?”

The man scratched his head. Glanced around the yard — still empty, still quiet. Only faint laughter drifted from the nearby bathhouse.

“Anything new?” He paused.

“Well… only that Erik left recently. The steward of Trosky.”

Henry straightened.

“Where to?” he asked.

The innkeeper met his gaze, then gave a small shake of the head.

“No one’s said.”

Hans raised an eyebrow.

“What was he like?” he asked after a moment.

The innkeeper shrugged. “Never met him myself. But… from what folk say, he was… how do they put it… thorough. Kept order in the land.”

Again he glanced around the courtyard — and briefly, toward the gate.

“But they also say…” he hesitated, “Well… when you fell trees, splinters fly.”

Henry frowned. “What do you mean?”

The innkeeper leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“This Erik. And his closest men. They weren’t known for mercy. To anyone.”

A rooster crowed into the silence. Loud. Ornamental. Strangely out of place.

The innkeeper straightened.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lords…” he murmured, and slipped back into the kitchen.

Only the bubbling of the soup remained. And distant laughter. And the damp, unsettled wind.

Henry and Hans looked at one another in silence for a moment.

Then Henry gave a tired smile, and tilted his head toward the stables. They left Zhelejov behind before long, passing through a wooded grove where the grass between the trees still lay dark and heavy, drinking in the rain from the night before. And then — without a word — they rode out into open country.

Meadows stretched wide in every direction, lush and quiet. Each blade, each flower still bore the weight of water, glistening under shy beams of sunlight beginning to pierce the breaking clouds. The air was damp, full — breathing with them.

The earth exhaled after the rain. Sweet and deep, the scent of bedstraw along the forest’s edge. The grassy note of clover — drying, but still carrying the taste of storm.

And only then, within that thick, yielding blend, other scents began to emerge — faint, fragile, reawakening. Bark. Soil. A trace of morning smoke, drifting from some far-off fire.

The horses’ hooves fell soft against the yielding ground. They rode on. Close together. Silent. Each lost into their own thoughts.

Soon they reached the edge of Vidlak pond. Its surface was still, dull — like silvered glass gone dusty, veiled with patches of mist that drifted low across the water, tearing gently against the reeds.

Sounds came muffled, yet vibrant — frogcalls, croaking, the low and hollow trumpeting of toads.

From the trees beyond the haze came the quiet slap of wings. A heron, perhaps. Perhaps not.

They didn’t stop. Just passed by — slowly — in the rhythm of their horses, and left it behind them.

The path led them back into the woods.

Trees closed in on either side — dense, tall, weighty. The light darkened, though the sun kept climbing. The ground thickened beneath their pace.

“Maybe he really has left for good,” Henry said into the hush.

Hans turned to him. His eyes held thought.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

Henry exhaled through his nose. Looked ahead again, where the morning light threaded through the branches.

“I keep thinking about what Hanush said. About von Bergow and his men.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of hooves.

“Praemonitus, praemunitus,” Hans said.

Henry turned his head slowly. His brow was slightly tilted. A faint, sheepish smile touched his lips.

“And what does that mean?”

Hans gave a short laugh.

“My uncle drilled it into me since I could walk. It means — forewarned is forearmed.”

Henry’s gaze drifted into the distance.

“Hanush might’ve been a good man…” he said at last. “If he weren’t… well. If he weren’t Hanush.”

Hans gave a short, bitter smile. He shrugged.

The forest broke to their right, and the path led them out onto a long, sloping rise. Before them stretched the land — deep and green, undulating — and far off, at its edge, rose Kozakov. It stood quiet against the sky, and from the woods along its flank, steam still rose.

Henry pulled the reins. He stopped his horse and simply looked ahead.

Hans came to a halt beside him. He glanced over — but said nothing.

Without a word, Henry dismounted. The motion was unusually calm.

Hans watched for a moment. Then he, too, slid to the ground.

Henry stepped toward him. Two steps. Three. Then stopped — close — took his hand and looked him straight in the eye.

There was a smile on his lips. Soft. Quiet. Drawn from within.

Then he wrapped his arms around Hans’s waist and pulled him close — and kissed him.

The kiss was slow. Gentle. And when, at last, they parted, Hans looked at him — eyes wide, quiet with wonder.

He touched Henry’s face — only his fingertips. Tender.

“What was that…”

Henry smiled, a little shyly. Shrugged.

“I just… needed to kiss you.”

Hans laughed — and kissed him again.

Then they stood there, simply holding one another.

The wind rose from the valley. Somewhere in the thicket, a blackbird sang.

Hans leaned in closer.

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

Henry’s palm slid slowly down his back, while the fingers of his other hand combed gently through Hans’s hair.

Hans drew back just slightly — met his gaze.

Long. Unhurried. With quiet in his eyes.

Henry smiled.

“Come,” he said softly. “We’re nearly home.” The road wound through fields and meadows like a stream — straight and gentle in places, then twisting through thickets and hollow ways. Now and then it rose into soft hills, only to dip again — smooth, effortless. The air was fresh, already touched with warmth, rich with damp and the scent of earth.

Above them, the cloud cover was breaking. What had been a seamless sheet of grey was dissolving into drifting tatters — pale strips pulling across a brightening sky like linen hung to dry. Sunlight threaded through the rents, long golden fingers brushing the grass.

They rode side by side. Silent. Unhurried.

From time to time, Hans cast a glance at Henry — soft, playful, the corners of his mouth just slightly lifted. At times, it was Henry who turned — a quiet look that touched like a hand. And sometimes, their eyes met.

And the smiles widened.

“I was thinking,” Hans said idly, “we shouldn’t forget that brilliant idea from the Lord of Rotstein about the garden.”

Henry turned his head. “You mean—?”

“Oh yes,” Hans nodded with feigned innocence. “I mean the bathing tub.”

Henry laughed. He looked ahead again — then back at him.

“You suppose the Lord of Rotstein might ask the noble Lord of Pirkstein to oversee the whole thing?”

Hans tilted his head, gazing down toward the land folding away ahead. First he raised his left brow. Then the right.

“He is exceedingly busy,” he said at last, grave and dignified. “But Rotstein may apply.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment.

And then their faces broke — a twitch at the mouth, a shared breath — and they both burst into laughter.

The easy kind. The kind that loosens the ribs.

When it settled, Hans sighed dramatically. He opened his mouth — but before he could speak, he paused.

His gaze had drifted across the landscape to their right — down the slope of a wide meadow they were just now reaching.

Henry caught the shift and turned that way.

A group of three riders was moving toward them across the field.

Rotstein colours.

They both slowed to a halt.

The riders approached — their canter eased into a trot, then to stillness. At the front rode a young soldier with a sharply cut face. Henry recognised him.

The man dipped his head.

“Welcome home, my lords!” he called.

Henry nodded in return. “Thank you. Carry on with your patrol.”

The soldier glanced to his companions, spurred his horse — and the three of them rode off again, crossing the meadow toward the low woods beyond.

Hans and Henry set off once more. Quiet. Side by side.

After a stretch, Henry glanced northward. Beyond the hedgerows, another group of riders was moving — three again — heading the opposite way.

He frowned.

“Dry Devil’s sending out a lot of patrols,” he muttered.

Hans looked over at him. His expression darkened slightly — then turned forward again.

The church had come into view.

And the first rooftops of Klokotsch. At the edge of the village, they slowed.

Klokotsch lay quiet — uncannily so. The homesteads, usually humming with their slow but steady rhythm, now stood still. Insects buzzed low over the meadows. A hen clucked somewhere in the distance, and behind a barn, a single horse stamped its hoof — once, sharp — then silence again.

By a few fences stood armed guards. Firm. Watchful. Their eyes tracked every movement. When they spotted the riders, they gave them a respectful glance — then returned to scanning the road.

Henry frowned. He looked toward Hans.

Hans met his gaze — and then, instinctively, straightened in the saddle. He drew a breath through his nose. Eyes narrowing slightly.

Resin. Something sweet. And something fresh.

Both of them turned their heads toward the church, perched on the gentle rise above the village.

The scent of incense reached them more clearly now — thick, aromatic, curling through the air like a gauzy veil. And through it, faintly, came the sound of singing from within the church.

Hans turned back to Henry slowly.

“I’d have sworn today was Saturday,” he murmured.

Henry paused. “It is Saturday.”

Hans frowned. Gave a small shake of the head.

“What in—” he began, but didn’t finish the thought.

Henry scanned the village, then pressed his thighs to the horse’s flanks and nudged him into a trot. Hans followed without a word.

They rode through Klokotsch — past silent yards and shuttered doors. No one came out. No one greeted them. Only one of the guards outside the baker’s gave a slight nod as they passed.

The road curved upward, winding toward the manor that stood beyond the last houses.

Henry slowed. Looked back over his shoulder and cast Hans a troubled glance.

“Why is the gate shut?”

As they neared the manor, the guards straightened. One of them stepped forward and dipped his head in greeting.

“Welcome home, my lord,” he said — just as the other reached for the bar.

Hans fixed the man with a steady gaze.

“Why is the gate shut in broad daylight?” he asked.

Henry backed him with a look of quiet, unmistakable expectation.

The guard swallowed. His voice was respectful — but tight.

“Captain Thomas’s orders, my lord.”

The gate creaked open. Slowly. Heavily.

They rode through.

As soon as their horses passed, the wood closed behind them with a dull, final clunk.

The yard greeted them with silence.

No one in sight. Only the watchmen on the battlements, standing like soldiers at war — upright, alert, their eyes scanning the land beyond.

Henry and Hans dismounted.

Henry’s horse let out a sharp breath and shook its head. Hans’s stretched its neck and rubbed its brow against his shoulder.

They looked around.

Then a sound broke the stillness.

A whine. High-pitched. Long.

From the direction of the stables came a sudden flurry — Mutt burst forth in a joyful blur, ears pinned back, tail raised like a banner.

He ran straight for them, whimpering, yelping, leaping — paws on Hans first, then on Henry, licking their hands, their faces, wriggling, barking, wagging so wildly he nearly knocked the saddlecloth from Henry’s mount.

They laughed. For the first time since returning.

Their hands found the dog’s ears, his back, any patch of fur they could reach. Mutt responded in kind, with tongue and tail and every fibre of his bounding joy.

Henry crouched down beside him.

Mutt threw his paws around his neck and licked his face in happy, slobbering bursts.

Hans watched them for a moment, smiling.

“I’ll go find Jitka,” he said — and turned toward the main wing.

Henry just nodded.

He stayed with the dog — brow resting against Mutt’s head, palms sunk deep into the warm coat.

“We left you all alone, didn’t we now…” he murmured, voice low and fond. “Catch anything? Been keeping watch?”

He scratched behind both ears. Mutt’s eyes fluttered half-shut, and he let out a satisfied grunt.

Then — Hans’s voice rang from the doorway.

There was an edge to it.

“She’s not here.”

Henry stood and turned.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Hans shook his head. “I don’t know. Godwin’s not here either. Nor Zdislava. Or Pavel. None at all,” he said with a shrug.

Without a word, Henry started toward the gate. Hans followed at his heels.

They stopped in front of the guard.

“Where is everyone?” Henry asked, voice firm.

The man swallowed. His gaze flicked between the two nobles, uneasy.

“M–Most likely at the church, my lord,” he stammered.

“The church?” Hans repeated. “And what’s happening at the church today?”

The man inhaled — but it took him a moment to find an answer.

“Father Godwin is… offering a mass to ward off evil,” he said at last.

Henry leaned in. Slowly. Steadily.

There was shadow in his eyes.

“What in God’s name is going on here?”

#hearth and kin part xiv #forest folk #kcd fanfic #hansry #henry of skalitz #hans capon #kcd henry #kcd hans #kcd2 fanfiction #lukas vatzek #pavel #captain thomas #dry devil #kcd mutt #jitka of kunstadt #vatzek #black rider #folk horror undertones #the forest is watching #bodies don’t stay where you leave them #whispers between the trees #mutt knows first

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