#timberhearts

[thetimberhearts]

Shepherding, Part 3

In which Fargon and Hyla figure out how to talk to spirits.

This was no earth elemental; this was a timber spirit. Hyla became acutely aware of this as her axe came up and cut through its face, and she almost dropped her axe as it fell back, green light spilling from its wound.

‘Spirits preserve us!’ she gasped. ‘I am so sorry.’ She was on the verge of tears as Dregorda got to her feet, staring at her slack-jawed.

‘Hey, it tried to kill us,’ she said. ‘Only fair we return the favour.’ She started forward, but Hyla grabbed her shirt and pulled her back.

‘Everyone wait!’ she yelled. She stood, putting her axe away. Fargon was getting to his feet, covered in dirt and worms. Tilt was near the hole in the fence, at once trying to stop the sheep wandering out and drawing back on her bow.

‘This is a forest spirit,’ Hyla explained. ‘If we kill it, we injure the forest - I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘Alright,’ Dregorda replied, ‘but if we let it live it’ll keep stealing the sheep. I’m all in favour of taking it down permanently!’

‘That’s not our call!’ Hyla protested. ‘We need to return through this forest. If we do it harm it’ll pay us back in kind, and I’m not keen on dying because we took down a sacred tree folk.’

‘I dunno,’ Fargon said. ‘I just got hit by a wave of dirt, I’m on Dregorda’s side here. I’m gonna burn this sucker.’

‘Will all of you just stop for a minute and help me with these sheep!’

They turned. Tilt was currently leaving grooves in the dirt as she dug in her heels against a ram which was gently but steadily pushing her towards them. The other sheep were following on, all apparently keen to be out of the field. Hyla and Dregorda felt something barge past them, and Dregorda began to protest, but the tree creature was walking to meet the sheep. It held out a hand, and shoots began to grow from its palm - the sheep nibbled at them contentedly, and it began to walk into the forest.

‘Hang on!’ Hyla cried, interposing herself between it and the trees. She held out her hands and began to sign to it as she spoke: ‘the owner of these sheep is mad that they keep disappearing at night. We want to know why, and we want you to stop stealing them. Understand?’

The tree folk cocked its head to one side, unheeding to the nudging of the sheep. It raised its hands and signed, stronger and more emphatically. Hyla watched, mouth tracing sentences for a moment before she stared, confused.

‘I hate to say this,’ she said, ‘but I don’t understand this thing’s dialect. We need another way to talk to this spirit.’ It tried to move past her and she jumped in the way, looking to the others for help. Dregorda shrugged. Tilt was now atop the ram’s head, staring backwards as it walked ahead.

‘I might be able to,’ Fargon said. ‘But it’s... risky.’

‘...Alright,’ Hyla said. ‘We’ll follow him for now. Let’s at least find out where he’s taking these things.’

-

‘What’s so risky about talking to it?’ Hyla asked Fargon as they followed the spirit. It paid little heed to them as it wove its way through the trees, the roots obligingly flattening its path as it went.

‘There’s always a risk when magic is involved,’ Fargon whispered. ‘It could backfire, or it could work too well - I could get stuck inside the thing’s head or it could get stuck in mine!’

‘Neither of those is ideal,’ Hyla muttered.

‘And even if it works perfectly,’ Fargon continued, ‘we’d have no filter. Or I wouldn’t - I don’t know about spirits and their attunement to magic, but I’d essentially be... sharing my mind with it? I dunno, it’d be tricky. If I even think something it dislikes it could mean hostilities.’

‘So we’d have little control over how it happened, and even if it worked we’d have little control over what we said?’ She looked at the back of the thing’s head, thoughts working through her mind.

'Maybe? It's... even more complex than that,' Fargon said. 'But if no other option presents itself, I'll try it.'

'Well be prepared,' Hyla said. 'I think we're coming up on the clearing - we're about to find out why the forest is stealing sheep.'

The tree elemental had stopped as the forest opened out into another large, clear area. The Timberhearts followed it in, behind the press of sheep which fanned out and resumed nibbling on the verdant grass. Others took a drink from the small pool which rippled at the foot of a great tree.

A tree which then moved.

All of the trees in the clearing moved in response to the entrance of the sheep; they curled in close, some drooping branches low to caress their woolen coats, others sprouting shoots around head height which the beasts would turn to chomp with idle comfort.

‘Ohhhh spirits,’ Fargon murmured.

‘It’s not just one elemental,’ Hyla said. ‘It’s a whole copse of them!’

-

Dregorda and Tilt spent the next hour sitting in the branches of these trees, while Hyla and Fargon argued quietly below. Tilt pulled leaves from her tree and leaned down to try and entice the sheep to look up.

Dregorda had attempted to negotiate a peace between the two of them earlier, but it had led to raised voices. Fargon didn’t know the consequences of using his powers to communicate with these things; Hyla didn’t want to give up and let the sheep just stay here.

‘Surely there’s another way?’ Dregorda asked. ‘I mean, maybe one of these trees speaks our dialect of spirit-speak?’

‘We’ll get nothing done if I have to interpret the words of spirits I barely understand!’ Hyla grumbled. ‘I need Fargon to talk with them.’

‘And I told you, I’m not risking my brain leaking outta my ears!’ Fargon snapped.

‘Well one of us has to!’ Hyla yelled, loud enough that the trees paused to stare at them with faceless trunks, and the ambulatory spirit moved to a combative stance. The time between was spent having a similar conversation, several times over, in hushed tones.

Tilt giggled as her tree shook in irritation, bursting a bloom of leaves where she’d been pulling them from the branches. Dregorda huffed a laugh and leaned back, closing her eyes.

‘Hey, why doesn’t Fargon just go into Hyla’s mind?’ Tilt asked. Dregorda opened her eyes.

‘I don’t... would that work?’ she sat up, running it through. ‘Then what’s going on? He’s just seeing what Hyla’s seeing. But he can’t interpret for Hyla.’

‘Well can he link a tree’s mind with Hyla’s too? Then Hyla’s the bridge between them, and Fargon doesn’t need to risk his brain turning to goop.’

Dregorda leaned down, grabbing a lower branch and swinging herself to the floor. She approached the bickering pair and tapped Hyla on the shoulder.

‘Hey. Tilt’s just given me an idea. Can I run it by the two of you?’

‘I’m not going into a spirit’s mind,’ Fargon repeated.

‘You might not have to,’ Dregorda said. She relayed the plan; Fargon rubbed his chin and paced back and forth as he thought it over.

‘It’s trickier, sure,’ he noted. ‘Dangerous for Hyla, perhaps - would you be okay with that, acting as a bridge? You’d be dealing with two minds, but I’d only be a passenger. I’ll just facilitate the connection.’

‘What are the potential problems?’ Hyla asked. ‘You were worried about being stuck in a tree before - could you get stuck in my head?’ She visibly grimaced at the thought.

‘Unlikely. Human minds are easy, it’s the same scale as mine - no chance of getting lost in there. Not that I’m calling you small-minded!’ Fargon added, seeing Hyla’s glare. ‘Spirits are ancient things - their minds cover miles. I’d be worried about you getting lost, but if I’m acting as a tether...’

‘Then you can always fish me back!’ Hyla finished triumphantly. ‘Brilliant! Okay, if you can interpret for me, I can talk to it.’

Fargon looked at Dregorda, then back at Hyla.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked. Hyla nodded.

‘We made a promise to Brye,’ she said. ‘Hook me up, wizard boy - I’m gonna talk to these trees!’

-

It took several minutes for Hyla to convey the idea to the tree spirit in her pidgin sign language - it signed back once or twice, emphatically, but in the end it nodded in understanding and joined her and Fargon.

They sat cross-legged in the middle of the clearing. Fargon glowered at the sheep which bleated around him.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘this would be a lot easier without so many distractions around.’

‘We don’t pick where we do this, Fargon,’ Hyla sighed. ‘Let’s at least make it quick - you’ve got me freaked out about this thing getting stuck in my mind, I’d like to get it over with.’

‘Alright, fine. Close your eyes.’ Hyla did so, and he followed suit. ‘Take a deep breath,’ he added. And as she did, she felt the space around her pinching...

‘You can open your eyes now.’

Hyla opened her eyes.

She was standing on a plain of grass, a meadow which sparkled with wildflowers in all the colours of gemstones. Fargon stood opposite her.

‘...this is a tree spirit’s mind?’ she asked uncertainly. Fargon tutted.

‘This is my mind,’ he said. ‘I brought you here first, before I link us up to the spirit. Just jumping straight into a mind like that can be dangerous - like staring straight down into deep ocean.’

Hyla looked around, seemingly admiring the space.

‘Kinda empty in here, isn’t it?’ she said, with a wry grin.

‘Hey!’ Fargon cried. ‘Do you want my help or not?’

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Hyla held her hands up placatingly. ‘Alright Fargon - what else do we need to do?’

‘I just need to warn you: what you’re seeing here is a merest fraction of a mind. Because I have the control to show you only what I want you to see. I’m going to be doing that for the spirit, so it doesn’t see everything in your head - we’ve known each other long enough, I’m sure you don’t have any problems with me going through your memories.’

‘So you’ll be puppeting me this whole time?’

‘No, I’ll just be editing what you show to the spirit. It’ll get a controlled version of you, rather than the whole thing. Rather than getting impressions from your subconscious, it’ll be getting pure conscious.’

Hyla strode around the meadow as she pondered this, kicking up flowers and clods of dirt.

‘It’s tricky,’ she mused. ‘On the one hand, we need to talk to this spirit; on the other, I don’t really relish you going through my subconscious while I try to negotiate with it.’

‘Last chance to back out,’ Fargon warned. ‘Is my looking in your head too big a price to stop this thing?’

Hyla planted herself and shook her head.

‘You’re right, Fargon - that’s no choice at all. Bring in the spirit; it’s time to talk.’

[thetimberhearts]

Shepherding, Part 2

In which the true cause of the escaping sheep is revealed, and Fargon has relationship troubles.

Brye’s farm was easy to find - they simply followed the trail of tamped down plants and loose wool which marked the flock’s return. Tilt carried the lamb, practically melting as she cooed over it, and even Hyla was persuaded to feel its soft coat. Fargon tramped ahead with Dregorda at his side.

‘It’s utterly ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘We could do well bringing the townsfolk around and turning them against the Pact, but instead we’re out here returning lost lambs!’

‘It’s a noble goal,’ Dregorda retorted. ‘We’re helping someone out. Besides, you know exactly why we can’t just go into every village on our route and say, “sorry, but you’re exactly wrong about everything you’ve thrown your lives into believing! Just drop it all now and we can be friends!” You think it’s easy for these people, being roped into such a foul cult?’

‘Well you’re changing your tune, aren’t you? I thought you were all about “death to the Shadow Moon!” and “We can’t let any of them go!” What happened to your vengeful spirit?’ Dregorda sighed, hugging herself.

‘That mindset hasn’t exactly been helping. Hyla might blame you for blabbing in Fernvale, but it was my temper that started the fight; fact is, I think we both could stand to be a bit more cautious.’

They walked on in silence for a while longer.

‘And is that what this is about?’ Fargon asked eventually. ‘Staying off the road, keeping out of the way of cultists? Is this you trying to be cautious?’

‘I’m not happy about how it’s turning out, to be honest,’ Dregorda sighed. ‘I thought Hyla would be happy I was showing initiative and trying to protect everyone, but-’

‘You did this to impress Hyla?’ Fargon let out a chuckle. ‘That’s a bad idea. I don’t think anything impresses her. Except music, and even then rarely!’ Dregorda barked out a laugh, and Fargon took it as his cue to continue, ‘In fact, let me tell you a few tales from our time growing up in Midlarch! I’ve got some stories I could tell you!’

They continued, Fargon regaling her with Hyla’s childhood exploits as, behind, Hyla walked just within earshot. The lamb turned and tried to munch on Tilt’s hair as she frowned.

‘He oughtn’t to tell stories like that about you,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that stuff... sorta private?’

‘Let him tell them,’ Hyla sighed. ‘I doubt there’s anything in there that would shock Dregorda. Besides, better he blows off steam this way than he loses his patience and hits me with a bolt of magic.’

‘...You don’t like Fargon, do you?’

‘He’s difficult to work with,’ Hyla agreed. ‘He’s not a bad person, but he’s not nice either. I may be arrogant, but he only thinks about himself.’

They continued on a little longer. Tilt let the lamb down after a moment, and watched as it sniffed at some leaves before taking a bite.

‘Fargon likes Dregorda,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Dregorda realises it. Do you think she likes Fargon back? Do you think she would if she knew?’

‘I’m not gonna speculate on that,’ Hyla responded sharply. ‘Come on - we ought to get this lamb back to the farm before we lose the light.’

-

At length they arrived on the outskirts of the forest, on a stretch of land which stood between the numerous trees and a stout fence. Well, mostly stout; there was a determined hammering a little way down, where Brye was doing her best to mend a break in the fence. As one, the group sauntered towards her.

Brye stood uneasily as they approached, but brightened and waved as she saw the lamb in Tilt’s arms.

‘I can’t believe I missed one!’ she sighed. ‘Clearly I’ve been working too hard these past few days - which is why I need to get to the bottom of this. Can you four really help?’

‘We’ll do what we can, ma’am,’ Hyla said. ‘No promises, but we’ll keep watch tonight at least.’ Relief flooded Brye’s face, enough to make Dregorda blush, and she looked between the four of them.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waking up to missing sheep for almost two weeks now, and they’re always just a couple of miles down into the forest. What sort of strange thief rustles a whole herd of sheep, only to leave them in the woods?’

‘We’ll let you know tomorrow, hopefully,’ Fargon said. ‘In the meantime, the day’s getting on - is there anything else we ought to know? And have you got any food?’

‘Only if you can spare it!’ Dregorda jumped in quickly. ‘Please. We wouldn’t want to eat you out of house and home.’

‘I’ve got a little put by,’ Brye said. ‘I’ll put something together for you - the least I can do. As for what you ought to know: it’s always this spot in the fence that’s broken, and the sheep tracks lead the same way each time; the rustlers don’t seem to leave footprints, and I’ve only ever seen them twice - both times I only saw one person, and seemingly no dogs to herd the sheep.’

‘And your dogs didn’t alert you?’ Hyla asked. Brye shook her head. ‘Could it be anyone you know?’

‘My neighbours would have no reason to steal my sheep. They’ve got their own, or other animals to look after. And spirits know they can’t afford the feed for my two-dozen sheep along with their animals!’

‘I think that’s all we need,’ Hyla said. ‘Thank you for your help - we’ll rest up here and keep posted during the night.’

In the next hour Brye brought out some cold cuts - lamb, mostly - and a few cheeses, and some blankets to keep them warm, and they were pleasantly surprised when she brought them a tray of ale as the sky began to turn from blue to pink.

‘She’s been very generous,’ Fargon said, once she’d gone again. ‘It’s not a village alehouse, I’ll admit, but doing the right thing certainly has its perks.’

‘Just remember to stay alert,’ Dregorda said. ‘We’ve got to actually do the good thing, even if we’re already reaping the rewards.’

‘I know, I know!’ Fargon sighed. ‘But hey, if you want to stay up and keep me company...’ he waggled his eyebrows as he reclined on a blanket.

‘Ugh, pig!’ Dregorda spat. Fargon recoiled, and glowered under Hyla and Tilt’s giggling as Dregorda moved away to where they had set up the tents.

‘Hey, can’t blame me for shooting my shot!’ he protested. Hyla buried herself in busywork, failing to conceal her amusement.

‘Not a good time for it, pal,’ she said. ‘You’d have better luck with me, and I’m not interested either.’

-

They went without a fire that night, instead wrapping themselves in blankets and bedrolls, and their tents were on the forest’s edge, away from the sheep tracks. Hyla emphasised arousing as little attention as possible from their potential rustlers, lest they get scared away.

‘If they’re as careful as Brye says, they’ll spot us anyway,’ Fargon muttered. He was crouching in a copse of bushes, watching the darkness for any movement. Hyla was with him currently, but she would be leaving soon to snatch some rest before her watch.

‘I put my faith in their incompetence, rather than their professionalism,’ she replied. ‘We have evidence of a single person leading them into the woods and leaving them there. Why not start with that hypothesis?’ Fargon let out a chuckle.

‘You really believe that?’ he asked. Hyla shrugged.

‘It seems more likely to me than a professional operation repeatedly hitting the same target to no concrete purpose. Don’t you think?’ She eyed him pointedly, and turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ he said, continuing when she turned back, ‘did you really mean what you said earlier? Do you think Dregorda’s not interested in me?’ Hyla stared blankly.

‘I never said that,’ she said.

‘Alright but you implied it,’ Fargon said hurriedly. There seemed to be genuine anguish on his face. ‘What, no chance? Really?’

Hyla pursed her lips and set her face. She could see from Fargon’s face that this would require careful manouvering.

‘And what of it?’ she asked. ‘She’s not interested, there’ll be others. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Yeah, but...’ he cast around, searching for the right words. Hyla moved closer, kneeling beside him, and took hold of his shoulders.

‘What are you afraid of?’ she asked. Softly. Directly.

Fargon leaned forwards, and met Hyla’s hand against his lips.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just... no. I’m not about guys. You’re afraid you’ll be alone? After this is over?’

‘Well I guess, but-’

‘But nothing, Fargon Dreamsbane. You’ve seen the Timberhearts of old - never alone, even after everything. After all the loss, all the pain! You’ll always have us, even if not in that way. We’ll be friends for decades afterwards.’

‘But-’

‘Fargon, you need to accept this,’ Hyla said. ‘We’re together as a group because we’re protecting what we love. Whether that’s our home, our family, or... something else. You joined the Timberhearts because you saw no other option to protect others - to be a hero. And now the road’s got bumpy, you’re asking yourself: what am I really in it for? You’re trying to find anything - anything at all - to justify the journey. I’ve got bad news for you, Fargon: the journey’s gonna be rough. The destination is worse. We’re going to have to fight a lot of fights, and we’re going to lose a lot of them. I don’t know about you, but I have no time to worry about “am I going to die alone?” when I’m thinking about that.’ She spied a shadow approaching from the fields, and there was a glint in her eye as she smiled at Fargon.

‘Don’t worry yourself too much about it,’ she said. ‘Take a look outside yourself for a minute and you might find there are others who appreciate all you do.’ And with that, she disappeared.

‘Wait, but!...okay.’ Fargon sighed. So much for that conversation. He turned to watch the fence, but a rustling of the bushes alerted him and he reached for his sword. He relaxed as Brye’s face appeared in the copse.

‘Did I surprise you?’ she asked. ‘Sorry. I know it’s late, but I can’t sleep knowing my sheep are in danger and, well... Did you want another drink?’ She gestured with the mugs in her hands and Fargon smiled.

‘Sure,’ he said, taking the profferred tankard. Brye took a seat next to him, taking a sip from her own. There was an awkward silence between the two of them.

‘I never thanked you for the ale earlier,’ Fargon said eventually. ‘Or the blankets; they’re helping tonight.’

‘Least I could do,’ Brye said dismissively. ‘You said it yourself, you guys are trying to save the world. If you’re taking the time to save my sheep in amongst that, I think you’re worth a drink or two.’ She nudged him in the shoulder with a fist. He smiled and stared out into the darkness.

‘You’ve already done so much for us,’ Fargon said. ‘Honestly, I think we needed a break from thinking about the whole world for a night.’

‘Just to focus on this part of it?’ Brye asked, and shivered. Fargon rolled his eyes.

‘What, did you give us all of your blankets?’ he asked. He opened his arm and Brye scooted closer in, allowing the blanket to be draped over her. ‘Your part of the world here isn’t bad, y’know. Except for the sheep rustling, of course,’ he added with a laugh.

‘You’re right there,’ Brye said, nestling up against him. ‘Nice to have some heroes here to put a stop to it.’

For a moment Fargon’s eyes were on the deepening shadows of the forest’s edge, but then he happened to glance down at Brye.

He took a look outside himself for once.

-

Two hours later Hyla came to relieve him from duty, to find Brye asleep against him as he sat watching the night. She smiled.

‘Are you still worried?’ she asked quietly, and he started. He smiled wanly at her - keeping still had worn him out.

‘Honestly? Yeah,’ he said. ‘But I’ll deal with it. Hey, are you okay if I just take her back to the farmhouse? I won’t be long.’

‘You sure? She could sleep in one of the tents, I’m sure Dregorda or Tilt-’

‘I want to make sure she’s safe if our rustler turns up,’ Fargon said, colouring. Hyla grinned and rolled her eyes.

‘Alright,’ she said. ‘Just... don’t stay for too long, okay? We’re gonna need you at some point.’

‘Just to make sure she gets to bed safe,’ Fargon promised. And indeed he returned just a few minutes later, stopping by Hyla’s side.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘for giving me some perspective.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Hyla responded. ‘And before you go: you could do better than thinking you’re the spirits’ gift to women. Think about it.’

‘...’I’ll think about it,’ Fargon said uncomprehendingly, before sneaking back to his tent.

The night wore on. Hyla kept a steadfast eye on the darkness, watching for anything she might be able to see - under the stars and the moon she would at least see if someone approached the tent.

The first hour ground past, and Hyla shifted uneasily. She stood to stretch, working out the kinks in her legs and back from crouching so long, and when she crouched down there was a light shape in the darkness. It was staring at the fence.

It hadn’t been there when she stood. It hadn’t been anywhere. But now it had appeared and it was examining the slapdash handiwork on the fence posts.

It raised an arm like a hammer and brought it down, splintering the wood.

‘Hey!’ Hyla yelled, leaping from the bushes and drawing her axe. As she approached she caught sight of splotches of green about it, like moss, and a humanoid heap of material as a whole shape - some sort of dirt elemental? She turned to call for everyone and that was when the thing reached out.

Well, “reached” was the wrong word. It drew earth from below its feet up through its body, and the whole thing became an extention of its arm which rocketed towards Hyla. She coughed as it took her full-on in the chest, and she sprawled backwards, the bushes ripping at her arms and legs. She stood, bruised and bloodied, and made a tactical call.

‘You’re gonna need some time for those sheep,’ she muttered, and ran for the tents.

Tilt and Dregorda woke quickly and Hyla hurried them towards the fence, warning them to watch out for its attacks. Then she moved to Fargon’s tent. He was fast asleep and snoring loudly, oblivious to the world.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ Hyla sighed, and she dug her heel into his side.

Fargon leapt up with a groan and shot a hurt look her way.

‘I was asleep!’ he cried. He paled when he saw her expression.

‘It’s here,’ Hyla said. ‘Some sort of elemental. We need your magic for this, Fargon.’

Fargon grunted as he got to his feet.

‘Figures it’s a magical thing,’ he huffed. ‘I was all set for a decent night’s sleep!’

‘Yeah, yeah! Complain about it while you fight it, lover boy!’

At the fence, Dregorda was dodging and deflecting attacks. She had her sword drawn, but with its long reach she was having trouble getting in close to cut at it.

‘How are you holding up, Tilt?’ she called. From the other side of it, Tilt leapt over a swinging arm and fired a shot from her bow. The arrow flew true and embedded itself in the thing’s back... where it was promptly absorbed into the greater mass.

‘I’d be doing better if I thought we could actually hurt this thing!’ she yelled back. ‘Forget the arms, Dregorda - cut thing thing’s head off!’

An axe whirled overhead and buried itself in the thing’s chest, causing it to stagger back. Hyla and Fargon were approaching, weapons drawn - Hya was already reaching for the second hatchet at her belt.

‘We don’t want to kill this thing,’ Hyla commanded. ‘Fargon, do you think you can separate it from the ground?’

‘Briefly, at least,’ Fargon said. ‘Be ready when I do, everyone!’ Hyla split off and moved to back up Dregorda as Fargon sent a pulse of foce against the elemental.

Some sort of understanding seemed to breach its mass. The hatchet twisted into its form and the metal axehead was shortly expelled, minus a handle. It spun its arms high, causing everyone around it to duck, and then it sent the full weight of its mass against Fargon.

‘Uh, I think I-’ was all Fargon could manage before a wall of earth bowled him over.

Hyla looked up at the creature that was still standing. Without the earth to protect it, this was a tree-creature, humanoid in shape, with a lithe body built of living branches. Leaves formed a head of hair and its face was a featureless trunk of wood. Branches twisted and knotted into muscles to form the rest of its body.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I get it now.’ As it turned to reach for her she stood, swinging her axe in an uppercut.

[thetimberhearts]

Venerated

This structure was ancient. Buried beneath Jorelmead’s bustling streets, it felt like the city’s discarded refuse, but there were indications in the gilding of the doors and the faded glory of the crumbled columns that it was once a place of strength and beauty.

Statues of all shapes and sizes, some of them partly eroded or collapsed under debris, leered out from shadows around the perimeter. Huntington ignored them as he scrambled through cracks and crawled on his hands and knees through tunnels created by floors toppling in on one another. His destination was deeper in, where others dared not tread.

And yet somehow, moonlight shafted into this area. It seemed to filter in just as brightly as though he were standing outside, in slanting beams which formed the bars of a cage around the other statue. This one was much larger than the others, and it seemed to have been carved by a later civilisation. Certainly more care and detail had been put into it; especially the eyes, which glowered with a half-alive malice. It was curled up on itself, rearing up against the ceiling - the only way it could have been created in here is if they had built the temple around it, but that seemed unlikely. For one, its dais was made of the statues which had stood there before it.

Huntington knelt before it. He dared not allow words to flow from his lips - he felt they would only be an apology, and an inadequate one at that. Instead he thought the usual graces and supplications, before getting to his feet and approaching the altar.

He had been surprised to find the altar intact, the first time he’d come in here. He’d heard the victorious heroes had smashed the thing, scattering the pieces all around - those stories had been difficult to source, and they told him only the basics.

A location.

A prayer.

And a name.

‘Haasinakorex,’ he murmured, placing the sack onto the black stone altar, ‘please accept my offering - the flesh of one whose god could not protect him.’ He opened up the sack. A severed head tumbled onto the stone, landed facing Huntington. Almost accusingly. Huntington took a knife from his belt.

‘Haasinakorex,’ he said, louder this time, ‘please accept my life - blood from my veins, may it flow into yours and give you strength!’ He dug the knife deep into his palm, groaning with the pain, and allowed the blood to drip down his fingers and over the decaying head.

‘Haasinakorex!’ he yelled. ‘Please accept my tongue - my words did not do their duty, and in penance I provide you with their source!’

He dug the knife into his mouth. There was a wet sound, and a whimper, and something landed on the altar next to the head.

The statue remained unmoving. Nothing came to collect the offerings. But it seemed to Huntington - and to the rats, which began to scatter and pile away from this room - that there was a heaviness in the air, a presence which had not been there before.

I am constantly amazed at your ability to slip in and out of a prison which has held me for centuries. It wasn’t a voice, so much as it was a shape in his memory. The words were there in his brain, slotted into place as though they had always been there.

Huntington froze. Talking with a god was not an everyday experience for most - it still rattled his brain, the sensation of this thing rooting around in his mind and interrupting his thoughts with its speech. He groaned as something else began to happen, a sharp pain in his mouth which caused him to bend double.

My one disciple is no use to me if he cannot spread the good word, Haasinakorex supplied. Huntington gasped, and through the blood tentatively licked his lips. A blob of ichor expelled itself from his mouth and was followed by a forked tongue, which flicked out and tasted the air.

‘My... my lord,’ he began.

When you first came to me, you were in a worse state. No eyes, your body broken. Remember the life I have given you, dear one.

‘I am forever in your debt,’ Huntington said. ‘My lord, I infiltrated the Cult of the Frozen Spear, as you instructed. Their god was a pitiful thing, weak and warbling, and I quickly rose through their ranks. They sent me far north, to a place called Midlarch - a small village, barely big enough for a blacksmith. I was to put fear into the child of some busybodies, but the plan failed.’

Ah, you would have cleaned the whole village of their poisonous lies! But they prevented you, preferring to live in their obliviousness.

Huntington examined that explanation mentally. It had a certain... truth to it. Yes, the hapless idiots in the village would rather farm and drink and sing, than listen to the truth of fear! Whereas he knew there were plenty of people within Jorelmead who lived their lives constantly aware of the little fears - fears like debt and hunger and status. Fears like that could eat away at a person.

We teach them that those fears need not be so frightening, Haasinakorex said. We show them that there is nothing to fear in the darkness. Darkness is nothingness. Let them embrace that.

‘They shall embrace that here, Great Devourer,’ Huntington said. ‘But those outlying villages will not be so easily swayed. For them, the light holds little fear - they look after their own and tell stories that chase the fears away.’

Then we come to them with an army, Haasinakorex explained. We show them what the light brings - fear and death - and we show them the darkness holds no such troubles. When you finally return, it will be as commander of my legions.

‘C... Commander?’ Huntington’s tongue flicked out in anticipation.

But you must put the work in first! Show this city where its fears can be conquered, let them know that we can make darkness the norm. Then spread out from here.

‘Yes, my lord.’

Ah, Huntington. You shall be my new prophet. Let the people hear the gospel of the Night Snake, and you shall command the Pact of the Shadow Moon.

‘The Pact...?’ Huntington tried to feel it out, but he felt suddenly anxious, the air around him thick and close.

Do not question it, my prophet, the voice in his mind reassured him. It is an ancient pact between long-forgotten gods, and I am but one link in a chain that bridges your world and others. Together, the Pact links universes, makes us strong. And you shall be at its head.

‘I shall command universes,’ Huntington said, with a reverent air. He bowed low once again, and found that the cut on his hand had healed too. He noted the shiny, pink scales there now, like a fresh moult.

‘Most revered Shadow Serpent,’ he said. ‘I pledge myself to you. Through my mind and body, you will shall be done; I shall echo your words through eternity, and bring the comfort of eternal night to the light-fearing masses!’

Good, good, my prophet. Now go! The surface lingers with those who fear. With the power of those above, you shall break these bars that surround me, and send me once more into a night blessed by serpents!

Huntington stood. He strode tall now, returning the way he had come with a sure step and grim purpose. The air in the room slowly became thinner as the presence retreated, and the statue once again seemed lifeless and arrogant.

After an hour, the rats returned to devour the meal left on the altar.

[thetimberhearts]

Shepherding, Part 1

In which the Timberhearts come to the aid of a farmer, and work out who is stealing her sheep...

Dregorda led the way out of Fernvale and almost immediately turned the group off the main path.

‘I thought we wanted to head straight to Versicale,’ Fargon said. ‘Shouldn’t we be taking the main road?’

‘We don’t know where this cult has eyes,’ Dregorda explained, tramping down what was barely a sheep track. ‘The main road is too dangerous. Besides, this is a shortcut.’

I trust Dregorda,’ Tilt piped up. She was at the tail of the party, bow in hand and eyes darting left and right. ‘I’m not keen on getting caught out again.’

‘Look, Fernvale was my fault,’ Fargon sighed. ‘But we can’t let that get us down! If we avoid every problem because it might end up being harmful, we wouldn’t be heroes!’

‘True,’ Dregorda admitted, ‘but as heroes we also have the luxury of choosing the problems we tackle. And I don’t need to tackle every cultist on the road down to Versicale.’

‘Fiorn won’t like it,’ Hyla finally said. The rest of them turned to regard her.

Hyla had been quietly keeping pace between Tilt and Fargon, but she had been uncharacteristically silent. Dregorda presumed she had been turning over the events of last night in her mind - she knew it was weighing heavily on all of them. Now she was looking more resolute, and a little angry.

‘He told us we had friends on the main road,’ she continued. ‘People we could trust. We should check in on them, even if just to ensure they’ve not been turned or captured by the Pact. We’ll go this way today, Dregorda, but we need to return to the main road as soon as possible.’

Dregorda looked about to argue. But she sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and said, ‘fine. I’ll trust you in this, Hyla. But you need to trust me - I’ve seen what this shadow cult can do, and I don’t want to see that happen to anyone else. I’m trying to keep us safe around here.’

‘I understand,’ Hyla replied, softening. ‘We’ll go cautious tomorrow. Lead the way.’

The track quickly became an overgrown, tangled maze, but Dregorda pushed on between trees and cut through bushes until they reached a clearing through which a river flowed.

‘This is the path proper,’ she said. ‘It’ll take us past some farmsteads but we shouldn’t encounter any trouble. At least, none of the cultist variety.’

‘Well that can wait,’ Fargon said, beelining for the river. ‘I need to soak my feet, I’m starting to get blisters!’

Dregorda turned and stared helplessly at Hyla, who smiled wanly.

‘We’ve been marching hard for a couple of weeks,’ she said. ‘I think we can take a long lunch today. And I won’t hold it against you if we take a little longer than a day to get out of this forest,’ she added, seeing Dregorda about to protest.

Tilt was already diving, head-first and fully-clothed, into the river, the tide turning grey behind her as it sifted away layers of dirt and dust from the road. Fargon lifted his feet as she splashed past, glowering at her, before dropping them back into the water and leaning back. Meanwhile Hyla ventured a short way into the trees, gathering loose sticks for firewood. Dregorda busied herself setting up the cooking pot and finding some large stones.

As it was, they were all surprised when more than a dozen sheep thundered through the clearing.

Dregorda jinked aside to avoid careless hooves more than once, dancing between the oblivious animals. Fargon leapt fully into the river to avoid being trampled, while Tilt watched the spectacle with delight. The sheep were all moving in the same direction, and Dregorda’s suspicions were confirmed as a woman entered the clearing, a crook in one hand. She could hear the barking of dogs on either side, harrying the sheep and driving them in one direction. She stopped short when she saw the heroes.

‘Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone would be here,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s usually quite quiet. Anyway, got to go! Good day!’ She moved on, but not fast enough.

‘Hold on!’ Dregorda cried, and grabbed her arm. The lady whipped round, ready to protest, but there was no malice in Dregorda’s look. ‘What’s your name, miss?’ she asked.

‘And what’s the big idea!’ Fargon cried from the river. ‘It’s gonna take me hours to dry off now! I could’ve been trampled!’

‘My name’s Brye,’ the shepherdess said. ‘I own the farm up north of here. And I don’t normally drive my sheep through here, but lately someone’s been breaking them out and driving them into the forest, and I have to bring them back each day!’

‘I’m sorry about Fargon, Brye,’ Dregorda said. ‘But that sheep problem sounds serious. We’re Timberhearts, perhaps we could investigate this?’

Fargon and Tilt shared a nervous look.

‘Now hold on,’ Fargon interrupted, climbing clumsily onto the bank. ‘We’re a little busy at the moment, Dregorda, and a potential world-ending cult takes precedence over some stolen sheep. Did you get them all back, miss?’

‘Well, yes, but-’

‘There you go, see Gord? They’re all back, safe and sound. No need to look into this, but maybe suggest she builds a stronger fence. Have a nice day, ma’am.’ Fargon wrung out his tunic and, with a pointed look at Dregorda, moved to open up his pack.

‘Your friend is right,’ Brye said quietly. ‘This is no big problem, and from the sound of it you have bigger issues.’ She gave Dregorda a final parting look and wove her way through the trees, following the distant bleating.

Dregorda whirled on Fargon.

‘Nice move, ass!’ Fargon shrank back as she advanced on him.

‘What? I’m trying to keep us on track, okay? Geez, not all of us believe we have to try and solve everyone’s problems. Some of us are realists.’

‘Um,’ Tilt said, but was ignored as Dregorda rose to Fargon’s jibes.

‘Oh, spirits forbid I try to keep us safe and do some good! Go dunk your head, Fargon, it’s clearly no good for thinking!’

‘Guys-’

‘Hey, I thought about that! I thought, “what’s Hyla going to say if we delay our journey by another three days just to look after some lost sheep?”. I thought I’d save myself an earful by turning it down, but I just ended up getting an earful from you instead - we’re on a mission, Dregorda! It’s kinda time-sensitive, or the world will end!’

‘Hey!’

There was a high-pitched bleating. The two of them turned to Tilt, who was on the far bank of the river holding a lamb.

‘This is probably one of hers,’ she said. ‘I think we ought to return it.’

Both Fargon and Dregorda drew breath to argue, but they stopped at the sound of clattering firewood on the clearing’s edge.

‘Have we got a lost sheep, Tilt?’ Hyla asked. ‘Do you know who it belongs to?’

Tilt nodded.

‘Alright,’ Hyla continued. ‘I think we can spare another day to return a lost lamb. What do you guys think?’ She looked between the two, bright-eyed and grinning.

Fargon was the first to react. He brushed off Dregorda and got to his feet, shouldering his pack.

‘Fine!’ he spat. ‘But when I find out what you’ve done with the real Hyla, there’s gonna be trouble!’ Hyla’s brow wrinkled and she smiled blankly, as Fargon threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘What happened to “return to the main road as soon as possible”? I thought we were on the clock!’

‘We are,’ Hyla said. ‘But we’ve been moving faster than I thought. Having the shadows at our backs really put wings on our feet!’

‘So we can spare a couple of days over a sheep, but not to savour the local ales and listen to songs in taverns?’

‘Not when we’re being assailed by the Pact in every village we enter!’ Hyla snapped. Her hand was at her axe and Fargon took an involuntary step back. Hyla softened, her hand falling at her side. ‘I’m sorry Fargon. I know we’re leaving behind a lot of comforts, and we were counting on the hospitality of the surrounding villages. But people have had their views and notions twisted by the Pact, and they’re almost as bad as the cultists themselves. We can do this one thing, and maybe it’ll result in some small reward that’ll buoy us up, because spirits know we need it. We’ve had fewer friends than we thought out here.’

Fargon relaxed too. He put his hands on his hips and paced the clearing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I... I miss home. I miss listening to songs in the tavern. I’ll be honest, the thing I miss most is winning fights against these bastards - it feels like every step closer is a giant step back. Should we have stayed home, protected our own? We could’ve kept Midlarch safe, easy.’

‘And let the light be devoured?’ Dregorda asked. ‘Midlarch won’t survive, even if we stop the Pact invading there. We need to do this to keep our homes safe. It’s a hardship, but it’s the only way.’

Distress was etched into Fargon’s visage. He looked for any reply, any help from Hyla or Tilt. Then, he sighed and said, ‘Yeah. You’re right, Gord. I just... the stories don’t make it sound like this.’ Hyla patted him on the back and smiled softly.

‘Remind me to tell you about tragedy sometime,’ she said. ‘Come on - let’s get this lamb back.’

[thetimberhearts]

The Debt-Collector, Part 2

First thing next morning Hyla took the letter to Fiorn. He put on a pair of delicate half-moon spectacles and read through it thoroughly.

‘Something about this is definitely off,’ he said. ‘The name - Draeborn Skile - that rings a bell.’ He handed the letter back to Hyla and immediately set about gathering items from about the house. He filled a pack with rations wrapped in cheesecloth, a small box of sealed letter, and a sack of coins. A coil of rope was strapped to the outside, and a rolled up tent was belted to the top. In short order Fiorn was wearing an old and slightly mouldering set of armour - metal plates sewn into cloth pockets, over stiff animal hide. Most importantly, he took up the weathered but still-shining sword in its red leather scabbard. Until this point it had been stuck into the umbrella stand, and was occasionaly brought out for storytelling theatrics. Strapped to his waist, it suddenly took on an aura of certainty and menace. No longer was it a prop for a tall tale; now it was a weapon for causing grievous injury.

‘What are you doing?’ Hyla asked, distress edging her voice. She took in the look - the weapon, the armour, the pack - and all thoughts fled. ‘I’m going with you, right?’

‘You can’t, Hyla,’ Fiorn sighed. ‘You need to stay here, so I have something to come back to. So your parents have something to come back to!’

‘I don’t understand,’ Hyla murmured. She felt her world crumbling beneath her. This final thread to her parents - the man who had steadfastly looked after her was vanishing into an unknown future, taking with him all memory of her parents from their time as heroes. Fiorn leaned down and took her by the shoulders.

‘I promise you this,’ he reassured her, ‘I will return. I keep hope in my heart that I will bring your parents back also; until then, you need to keep the house, their possessions - their music - safe! Hyla, you must stay, if only to fend off the vultures that have been sent for your home.’

And Hyla could only nod, tears in her eyes, as Fiorn opened the door and marched into the rising sun. And then she was alone.

-

For the next week Hyla sat on her porch, strumming the songs her parents had taught her with her axe always in reach. The debt-collector visited her each day, always pressing the urgency of the need for the money. And every day Hyla would say the same thing.

‘Thank you, Mr Huntington, but my own enquiries are ongoing. You will need to wait until I have received word from my own parties.’

‘And when will that be?’ Huntington asked at the end of the week.

‘Before Summer’s end,’ replied Hyla. ‘If you are lucky.’

‘You are running out of time, Ms Silkstring,’ Huntington warned. ‘I am authorised to take measures to ensure a return on Mr Skile’s investment.’

‘I have until Summer’s end,’ Hyla stated. ‘And I intend to wait until I have all of the facts. I will see you at Summer’s end, Mr Huntington.’

‘You know where to find me,’ said Mr Huntington. The phrase had a finality to it, on his lips.

‘And I’ll be right here,’ Hyla responded. She stared steadily at his retreating form as he returned to the tavern.

During the days when Huntington was not prowling around her stoop, Hyla was trying to live her life as normally as possible. She frequented the tavern, often in full view of Huntington; she visited her grandparents, who chided her for missing so many lessons on scripture and challenged her to name the spirits of the forest and rivers; and each day she could, she visited the forge to bring Freyl some food, which she left on a covered plate balanced on the windowsill.

‘Please come out Freyl!’ she said, every time. ‘I promise you the debt-collector means you no harm; and I would be grateful for the company of someone who knows me...’

‘Pardon me, Miss Silkstring,’ Freyl would reply, ‘but that man is a demon and I’m not coming out for nothing, including your kind company. I’m not leaving the safety of my forge until that repo man is out of town.’

Despite trying to be as normal as possible, to live the life she enjoyed in Midlarch, she felt the eve of summertime drawing ever closer like a dark shadow. She spent more and more time in the woods, chopping trees and lifting logs. Eventually, she knew, summer would be over, and she did not like to think of what may happen then.

-

It was Drever who forewarned her. More and more people had been stopping by the tavern, burly types with weapons, and Huntington had been speaking to some of them, or even paying them.

‘You think he’ll take my parents’ property by force?’ Hyla asked.

‘I don’t rightly know miss,’ Drever said. ‘But I know he’s likely to threaten it. And, forgive me for saying so, but your parents and Fiorn aren’t about here right now, so there’ll be precious few who’ll be willing to protect you from them.’

Hyla sat and thought about it for a time. She took up the axe and examined its edge.

‘I’ll be fighting,’ she said, mostly to herself. ‘I have to fight for what I love. And if the letter is to be believed, this is all I have left of my parents.’

When Drever heard this, he took himself off to Freyl’s forge, where he at least coaxed him close enough to the door to listen.

‘I know you’re nervous, lad,’ he said. ‘I know you think this man’s a demon - he’s been in my tavern every night for nearly a month, I can see why! And... well let’s not beat about the bush, I know you’re dumber than a box of rocks. But Hyla’s determined to stand and fight for her place, and it’ll do her good to have someone else there to boost her up, even if you’ve got no stomach for a fight yourself.’

There was silence for a long time. Then, the door was unbolted and Freyl exited, armed with a hammer and carrying a sack over his back.

‘I may have been a coward this whole time,’ he announced, ‘but by the spirits I’ve not been idle! We’re going to have a chat with the farmers tonight and rally them to the cause!’

‘That’s as may be, lad,’ Drever said, ‘but I’ll be in the pub and likely they will be too. With the debt-collector,’ he continued, at Freyl’s blank look. ‘And his cronies.’

The cloud of misunderstanding passed and was replaced with the moonlight of grey terror. Drever put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Summer’s end is tomorrow night, lad,’ he said. ‘How about you go see them in the morning?’

-

Hyla spent the majority of the next day cleaning. She scrubbed the counters, dusted down the instruments and cleared the cobwebs. She spent an hour on her knees clearing the mould from the grout on the tiles. When the house gleamed she sighed, staring at a picture of her parents.

‘I’m sorry, Ma and Pa,’ she said, ‘but I’m not cut out for the life of the housewife.’

She still had some afternoon sun, so she sat on her porch with a mandolin and picked out a few lilting tunes. After an hour Huntington arrived, leaning against the gate. He took off his glasses to clean them on his tunic - revealing a set of yellow eyes with slitted pupils - and replaced them as he looked around imperiously.

‘Nice day for it,’ he said. Hyla noted that he did not specify what “it” was. Though she had a pretty good idea.

‘I’ve been around the area’ she said. ‘There’s villages not far away with heroes of their own, songs they sing that no one’ll take outside those few short roads. I’ve collected a few of them, and I aim to collect more.’

‘Do you think you’ll have time?’ Huntington asked. Hyla shrugged.

‘I’ve had until Summer’s end for this,’ she said. ‘I trust I’ll have a little more time.’

‘Yes, well-’ Huntington moved to open the gate.

‘I read through that letter again,’ Hyla interrupted. ‘All those threats, those words. And I note that there was no mention of what organisation you belonged to that had the authority to collect these debts.’

‘It’s more of-’ Huntington began, but Hyla stood abruptly, her mandolin dangling in one hand. She picked up the axe from its stump, looking at it critically.

‘Fourteen hundred silver coins,’ she said. ‘That’s a lot to borrow from some Draeborne Skile. And I wonder, if you totted up everything in this house, and the house itself, and the land, if you’d even get half that. It’s good farmland, I grant you - you should see our cows when we’ve got ‘em! - but fourteen hundred is the worth of a kingdom.’

‘What can I say? Your parents-’

‘I have a little put away,’ Hyla said. She pulled a sack out from behind the stump, setting the mandolin down in its place. Huntington watched it hungrily. ‘I was saving up to go on my own adventure. It’s not nearly enough, of course, but...’ she opened the sack, pulling out a handful of gold and letting it tinkle back into place. Huntington stepped forward.

Hyla flicked a coin his way. He caught it.

‘That’s my offer, debt-collector,’ she said. ‘If you want to fight for the other thirteen hundred ninety-nine, you can meet my axe.’

Huntington looked at the coin, distaste rankling his features. He dropped it on the ground.

‘You have two hours, Ms Silkstring,’ he announced. ‘I will return then and take measures to collect my client’s money.’

Hyla watched Huntington retreat and returned to her mandolin. She pulled aside a board from the porch and slipped the bag of money into the gap. At least, she reasoned, they’d have to pull the place apart board-by-board to get everything they wanted.

-

The night couldn’t come quick enough. Hyla waited outside, axe in hand, watching the dimly-lit path for signs of the debt-collectors. The wind whisked stalks of long grass into a dance, whispering grave warnings through the night.

A lantern signalled someone’s march towards the house, and Hyla felt her breath catching. She hadn’t realised how scared she would be at this moment. The gate opened and her grip on the axe tightened. The swinging lantern approached ever closer...

And the shadows behind resolved themselves into the soft face of Freyl. He smiled warmly.

‘Evening, Miss Silkstring,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve come to take you to the tavern.’

Hyla started, struggling to find the words. She looked around, gesturing at... all of it.

‘I can’t, Freyl,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve got to protect my parents’ house.’

‘Oh, don’t worry miss!’ Freyl cried. ‘We’ve taken care of it.’ Hyla blanched.

‘Taken... care of...?’ At last she allowed herself to be led away from the porch and into the night, where Freyl spent the short walk to Drever’s tavern explaining as much as he could.

‘I went to talk to some of the farm hands this morning, miss, and they were all in agreement that they ought to lend their strength to your defence. And Drever told me to have them all meet up outside the tavern, so I did that and we all were armed-’

‘Sorry, armed with what?’ Hyla asked. She was struggling to follow along.

‘Armed with axes miss. I’d used some of the old ploughshares and broken pans people’d brought me, turned them into axes with blades like yours. It seemed... symbolic, miss.’

‘I... see. And outside the tavern?’

What had transpired outside the tavern was that some two-dozen strong-backed farm hands, each armed with an identical axe (because Freyl might’ve been slow, but he did excellent work with metal), entered the bar as Huntington and his men laid out their weapons on the bar top. And as the men turned to face the fine folk of the village, Drever had stealthily taken each blade, club and bow, and stowed them beneath the bar. And so, between these debt-collectors and the door was a wall of heavily-armed people holding fresh weapons they knew how to use, and they were facing a much smaller group of now mostly-unarmed men.

They were still there when Hyla arrived. Freyl announced her to raucous cheers, and she stood in the doorway, frozen with an overabundance of emotion. Finally, she stepped over the threshold and met with a solid half of the lads in the employ of the local farmers, who slapped her on the back and roped her into hugs and all clamoured to be the one to buy her a drink.

‘First one’s on the house!’ Drever cried as she shoved her way to the bar. ‘It’s a crowded night, and I’ve a hunch this story will be told for many a year to come!’

‘I’m glad it all worked out,’ Hyla said. ‘Thank you for the warning Drever, and for helping with this. Where is Huntington at this time?’

Drever pointed to a corner, where a table was taken up with half a dozen scarred and surly men in the same oilcloth coats. Huntington painted a stark contrast, thin and pale in the middle of them.

‘Well, you tried,’ Hyla said, taking a seat opposite him. Every member of the group was suddenly facing her, but a chorus of jeers and yells from behind her backed her up and caused them to shrink back.

‘They still have their axes,’ Huntington said. ‘Meanwhile we must go unarmed. Is that fair?’

‘Perfectly, for those who threaten violence,’ Hyla responded. ‘I came here to make you a deal - my offer still stands, Mr Huntington.’ She took a silver coin and slid it across the table.

It happened in an instant. Huntington, in his rage, tipped the table aside, and then there was a knife in his hand and he was thrusting down with all his weight at Hyla’s chest. She pushed up and they met in the middle, the handle of her axe barring his arms.

‘I ought to kill you, you insolent little-’ he started, but Hyla twisted and the axe twisted with her. It was barely a sound - a sharp tick! in the atmosphere as Huntington’s glasses were knocked free - but Hyla felt the pressure release. Huntington was on his knees beside her, clutching at his face. As she got to her feet, she could see the blood - cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, but they were still cut as easily as any other flesh.

Huntington glowered at her with those reptilian eyes.

He leapt for her again, but this time a press of bodies threw him back. His arm was wrenched back and broken, and the knife driven from it, and in a moment twenty-four farm hands had thrown him out into the street.

The crowd parted, and Hyla stood over him.

‘Summer’s end is past,’ she said. ‘I suggest you and your men go home. You’re not getting your money.’

‘It was never theirs to take!’

Everyone looked up. Striding up the path was Fiorn Oakmane, flanked by Inez and Salamane Silkstring. Fiorn carried a sack in one hand.

‘Forgive me, Hyla,’ Fiorn boomed, ‘but I needed to check that your parents were okay. It was all a ruse! Draeborne Skile was a cultist from back in the day, when he heard your parents were back in Versicale and sent some agents to try and rough you up. He was hoping to kill your parents, but they’re Timberhearts!’

‘Drae... Draeborne Skile is disgraced since you stole that money from him!’

‘Not stole,’ Salamane retorted evenly. ‘He was a cultist and we took the loot from his temple of blood. He was killing people, we stopped him.’

‘And we took our just reward,’ Inez finished. ‘You have no place here, cultist. Or debt-collector, whatever you wish to call yourself. Leave.’

‘I still have men here!’ Huntington hissed. And it was a hiss - guttural, reptilian. Something strange about that one, Hyla thought.

‘Yeah? Here’s an incentive for you all to leave!’ Fiorn cried. He tossed the sack to Huntington, who caught it. He opened it up, and a strangled cry escaped his lips. As his men watched from the window, he scrabbled to his feet and sprinted down the lane as fast as he could, bag in hand.

Fiorn looked through the window at the men who remained. As one, they shoved their way through the throng and followed their master dutifully. As they left, Hyla ran and embraced her parents.

‘I thought you were dead! For months I worried!’ she cried, tears stinging her eyes. She sobbed into her mother’s shoulder as she and her father encircled her.

‘So Mr Oakmane, sir,’ said Freyl, appearing at his elbow. ‘What was in that bag that scared them so?’

‘Draeborne Skile’s head,’ Fiorn replied. Freyl blanched. Hyla, hearing this, stared at him in shock.

‘You killed this... Skile?’ she asked, wishing she had misheard. Fiorn nodded solemnly.

‘We all went to him,’ Salamane said, ‘when Fiorn told us what he had done. He admitted it, so we took his life, hoping to end this without bloodshed. But I see the village was a step ahead of us.’

‘Yeah!’ Freyl cried. ‘You’re a real hero now, Hyla! You showed them up!’

-

Weeks later Hyla would be sitting with Fiorn on his porch, still mulling over those words.

‘I still don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘I’m no hero, though everyone treats me as one. I was scared, but I was still fully prepared to fight those debt-collectors. I would’ve killed to protect my home; does that make me a hero?’

‘It’s time I told you the truth about the Timberhearts,’ Fiorn said with a sigh. ‘In all honesty, very little was down to us. We fought bandits in the hills and cultists in their temples, but before that we were in the towns and villages, turning the tide by showing the people what these villains really were. Freyl saw it immediately and got to work, but I doubt he would’ve done if it hadn’t been you who was in trouble. Even for himself.

‘This is the truth of the Timberhearts - of heroes all. Our work is not just to protect what we love, but to show everyone else how to protect what they love too. To inspire action, to motivate change... and to be the kindness that we wish to engender in strangers. You’ve been kind to Midlarch, and they fought for you in return. If you want to be a Timberheart, understand that you will need to do the same for people who have never heard of you - who may even hate you for what you represent. The tales, the daring deeds - they’re what people remember, but they don’t hear about the people who died helping us. Who helped us because they knew they could make a difference, and gave truly their all to do so.’

‘And that’s what it takes to be a Timberheart?’ Hyla asked. ‘The courage to die? The courage to be hated, and reviled, and to be kind despite it all? That sounds...’

Hyla laughed through the tears as Fiorn put an arm around her and put her close.

‘You got it,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘That sounds almost tragic,’ Hyla finished, and she smiled.

[thetimberhearts]

When We Last Had Time

Ablaf King’s home was a hovel. Stones were stacked precariously under a bowl-cut roof of thatch. Gaps in the stonework must surely have leaked cold autumn air into the house. There were weeds growing along the verge of the wall and around the front steps, and the ringfenced field next to it housed two surly, ancient goats and a tumbledown scarecrow on which was drawn a crude smiley face. The goats preferred to feed on the straw stuffing which leaked from the scarecrow, than on the grass which was overgrown and wild.

Nonetheless, when Fiorn Oakmane pounded on the door with his fist before stepping inside, he knew he would be greeted with a flush of warm air and the scent of good cooking. Thus it was so, though neither of these were tended by Ablaf King himself.

The man himself was hunched over a small desk, quill scratching on paper as he attempted to make the most of the light. All around him on the floor were papers, some discarded in carelessness, others balled up in frustration. He wore a lilac robe with cuffs stained almost black by constant ink spills, and his hair was a flame of orange tied hurriedly back, with streaks of grey just now etching their way through.

For his part, Fiorn threw himself down into a comfortable armchair by the fire, which crackled merrily in the hearth. Up above it, the mantel was strung with letters, illustrations and the occasional herb, and various trinkets stood out on top: a crystal from a Kyren wand; a dagger of gold stuck into the woodwork; and taking pride of place in the centre, a picture frame showing an illustration of two boys.

Above even that, bracketed to the wall, was a sword. It seemed to ooze and fight against the stillness. Its blade was shiny and black like fresh ink, and its hilt was as white and jagged as broken bone. The edge was broken up intermittently by flecks of white, like carnivorous teeth poking through rotten gum.

‘You’re sitting in my chair.’

Fiorn was drawn from contemplating the decorations. Ablaf had not moved, he was still scribbling at his desk. Fiorn grunted and relaxed further into the soft furnishing.

‘You’re not using it,’ he retorted. ‘Anyway, I haven’t seen you in years. I’d say it’s my right to avail myself of the best of your hospitality.’

‘I know.’ Ablaf stood. Without regarding his guest, he picked up the kettle from the stove and headed for the back door. ‘The other chair is better.’ With that, he stepped outside.

Fiorn sat for a time, listening to Ablaf working the water pump. The place had changed, at least a little. The cooking pot in the fireplace was cleaner, and the herbs different. This was not the lamb stew Ablaf had been so fond of last time - little more than gruel, cooked past any semblance of taste. Even at home he had cooked like he was on the road. He looked over the rest of the place: a small living room with two chairs; his writing desk by the window, to make the most of the daylight; and the kitchen area, looking scrubbed and spotless. Effort had even been made to scour the stovetop, though that at least was still a fruitless effort - it appeared he had managed to move the grease into a new and interesting pattern before giving up.

Ablaf returned presently and waved a hand over the stove, which thrummed with warmth. He placed the kettle atop it and sat opposite from Fiorn, who smiled warmly at him.

‘To what do I owe this visit?’ Ablaf asked shortly. Fiorn laughed.

‘What? Can I not just wish to see an old friend? Ablaf, my dear, you still worry too much what others need!’

‘Hmph! I would worry less were I not called upon for my abilities so often! Oh wise one, my crops are dying! Oh great one, we are beset by a cult! Oh King of Kings, we-’

‘King of Kings?’ Fiorn made a face and Ablaf scowled.

‘It was said of me once,’ he explained. ‘Not my choice.’

‘So you are beset by people? Even out here?’ Ablaf nodded, idly tapping out a tune on the arm of the chair.

‘They travel for days to see me, hoping they can avail themselves of my power. So rarely they explain that the help they desire requires that I journey with them - I tell them these days that I am stationary, I don’t do that adventuring thing anymore.’

‘So how did you help with the cult?’ Fiorn asked. Ablaf started.

‘You heard about that?’ he asked, and Fiorn grinned.

‘Didn’t need to. I know you, Ablaf King - talk of cults and dying crops, you’d leap at the chance to save people!’ Ablaf rolled his eyes, but smiled at the compliment.

‘And what of you?’ he asked. ‘How has the domestic life been treating you?’

‘Fine enough, fine enough. Inez and Salamane had a kid, a daughter.’ Ablaf whistled and leaned back.

‘Finally! I was wondering when those two were going to admit their feelings for each other. After the last cult incursion I figured Salamane would have to die before he-’

They were interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. Ablaf got to his feet abruptly and bustled around the kitchen, taking the kettle off the heat and bringing out mugs. He mixed nettle, cinnamon and ginger in the mugs and poured in the water, and soon the pungent fragrance overpowered even the soup on the fire. Ablaf set the mugs down by the chairs and ladled some soup into bowls.

‘Will you eat?’ he asked, proffering a bowl. Fiorn took it and tried some.

‘Vegetable soup?’ He gave Ablaf a curious look.

‘I’m getting old, Fiorn! I can’t keep going on travellers’ stew. So I... well I read up on some recipes. Got to look after myself in my old age.’ Fiorn sighed and fixed Ablaf with a worn look.

‘Have you ever considered coming with me to Midlarch?’ he asked. ‘I have a nice place, spacious, and you could catch up with Inez and Sal and meet their girl...’ Fiorn tailed off under Ablaf’s sullen glare.

‘I’m... not good with people,’ he said, clutching at his sleeves. He and Fiorn continued to eat in silence for a time, before Ablaf continued, ‘Midlarch - is it a nice place?’ Fiorn shrugged.

‘Nice enough,’ he said. ‘The people are pleasant, and your friends are all there. There’s always a story to listen to at the tavern, thanks to the Silkstrings!’

‘I may visit sometime,’ Ablaf said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t commit to more.’

‘I understand,’ Fiorn said. ‘None of us were the same after the Kyren. It hit you the hardest.’ Ablaf nodded. The light was beginning to fade and the shadows were lengthening. Suddenly sensing the passage of time, Ablaf hurried to light the lantern overhead. It illuminated with a pulse of his hand. As he moved to sit back down, Fiorn took his hand.

‘Sit with me?’ he asked. Ablaf paused, looking down at the kind, open face of his old friend. With a sigh, he collapsed into Fiorn’s lap, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck.

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he murmured. ‘Do you have time to stay the night?’

‘At this point, I think it’s best,’ Fiorn replied. ‘I’m on my way to Versicale to investigate some odd events. They concern Inez and Sal.’

‘And me?’ The silence stretched out with the setting of the sun.

‘Only if you wish,’ Fiorn said eventually. ‘I make no requests of you, not at this time.’

‘So why did you visit?’ Ablaf asked, burying himself in Fiorn’s neck. Fiorn chuckled gently as his hand wound up to play with Ablaf’s hair.

‘Because I missed you, friend,’ he replied. ‘Because I saw my route would take me past your house and... well I thought, when did we last have time just to be together? To catch up?’

‘It’s been too long,’ Ablaf sighed.

Night turned slowly to day, and the rising sun found them still in Ablaf’s chair, entwined with each other. As they woke to the dawn light, they set about chores: Ablaf seeing to the remains of last night’s meal, and Fiorn getting his pack together to leave. After a quick breakfast they stood in the doorframe, letting the unsaid words flow between them.

‘Will you have time to stay on your return?’ Ablaf asked. ‘I extend that invitation to Sal and Inez, too.’

‘I hope so,’ Fiorn replied. ‘I need to be back in Midlarch by summer’s end - a favour to their daughter, I’ll explain another time.’

‘Too much for us heroes to do, even when we’ve retired,’ Ablaf laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll come up to Midlarch sometime to see you, then.’

‘Don’t leave it too long,’ Fiorn sighed. ‘This gap was long enough.’

‘Until next time, then. Goodbye Fiorn Oakmane, may the winds guide your step true.’

‘Farewell, Ablaf King, may the sun warm your home evermore.’

As the sun announced the morning to the world, Fiorn Oakmane made his way from the home of his friend into the unanswered questions of tomorrow.

[thetimberhearts]

The Debt-Collector, Part 1

As a child, Hyla Silkstring could not understand why her parents were so often absent from her life. For months at a time they would disappear from Midlarch, leaving her in the care of the neighbours, who were indulgent but had their own children to care for; or her grandparents, who were strict, faithful types and taught her stricture by rote. Thus, by the time she was old enough to understand that some troubles take place far from home, she knew the names and deeds of every little godling that made trees grow and rains fall and fires warm, and she knew she wanted nothing to do with any of them.

Happily, by this time her parents were more settled and only left to resolve their “troubles” infrequently, and they began to tech her some skills of their own. Ma and Pa Silkstring were songsmiths - they weaved tales of myth through music and rhyme, and they taught her how to play the mandolin. Over the years they taught her whirling jigs to delight the pub-goers, slow waltzes for summer nights, bonny tales of grand heroes, and the mournful dirges of tragic sacrifices. Of all of these, Hyla loved the heroic tales the most, and she ventured to nearby villages from time to time as she grew up to find ever more myths to which she could turn a tune.

Ma Silkstring - her name was Inez - knew Fiorn Oakmane well, and when no other alternative presented itself - or when Hyla grew independent and indignant enough to protest staying with her spiteful, stringent grandparents - he acquiesced to looking out for Hyla, and in her teenage years provided a warm hearth and a hearty meal when she rebelled and ran away from home. Hyla looked to Fiorn as another grandparent - the fun kind who lets you stay up late and eat iced buns, not the kind who teaches you the names of the laertes for eight hours and makes you go to bed at sundown - and she especially enjoyed his stories of the Timberhearts! They were always grand adventures in which monsters were a great threat, but ultimately defeated. The heroes always prevailed!

‘We always won because we had the will to fight for our place,’ Fiorn would say at the end of these stories. ‘We had the will to fight for what we loved.’

And Hyla would smile and begin to compose songs of these stories, playing the mandolin until the early hours of the morning and singing softly half-formed lyrics. Fiorn would fall asleep in his chair long before she had finished, and when she left she would tuck a blanket over his shoulders and close the door quietly, before padding back to her parents’ home, climbing in through the window, and sleeping until the afternoon.

-

When Hyla was sixteen her parents went away once more, and this time she was trusted enough to stay by herself. Since she was fourteen she’d been skipping her lessons with her grandparents, going into the woods with an axe and felling some of the smaller trees. She would chop them into sections and exercise with log lifts, or else put them on her shoulders and perform squats with them. Her parents found out quickly, of course, but they said nothing about it to her, reasoning that she had earned a little freedom and she was not straying as far as she did in her hunger for tales. So it came to be that, in the couple of years she had taken for exercise, she was now broad-shouldered and stronger than most of the farm-hands. Her evenings were often spent in Drever’s tavern, where she would ply her trade in song for a few coins, and then wager those in arm-wrestling for a greater profit. She did this for six months, until no hand in Midlarch would agree to the wager, but by this time she had amassed a tidy profit.

‘What are you planning to use it for?’ Fiorn asked. It was a warm summer night and the two of them were out on his porch, drinking a blend of herbs in hot water. Hyla shrugged.

‘That’s why I came here,’ she said. ‘I want to go on my own grand adventure, but I can’t decide - do I trust in the axe I’ve been using to cut down trees, or do I get myself a sword with a keen edge? Freyl the blacksmith says he can give me a good rate for a decent blade-’

‘I think Freyl has a thing for you,’ Fiorn said, and smirked as Hyla coughed out a mouthful of tea. She glowered at him. ‘Well he’s never offered me a good rate!’

‘Freyl’s... he’s nice, but he’s not my type.’ Hyla smiled as her mind drifted to other people, who perhaps were her type.

‘He’s steadfast and he does a good trade,’ Fiorn acknowledged. ‘But he hasn’t got half a brain and he doesn’t know what to do with the half he has got. If you married him you’d be doing the finances, the cooking, the cleaning...’

‘Eurgh! No thanks!’ Hyla made a face and Fiorn chuckled, but then his eyes were tinged with sadness. He knew where this conversation was going.

‘I’d rather go on grand adventures, like you and Ma and Pa,’ Hyla said, and Fiorn nodded. He patted her on the shoulder.

‘Those grand adventures weren’t all glamour and heroics,’ he explained. ‘What I’ve told you thus far is the wheat - all the pain is in the chaff and the stalk, and I know you’ve no patience for those stories yet.’ Hyla scoffed.

‘Surely I could stand to hear about some of the bad things!’ she said. ‘There are no stories without hardship, after all; like the time you and Ma were trudging through the snow, pursued by mad cultists! No food, very little shelter, for two weeks all you had was what you could find and what you could kill!’

‘That’s hardship,’ Fiorn said. ‘It’s not tragedy. And if that’s your idea of the difficulties you could face as a hero, I don’t think you’re ready for the real tales just yet.’

And that was an end of it. Until two weeks later, when a strange man arrived in Midlarch. He wore a black oilcloth coat and a low, long-brimmed hat which covered most of his face. He passed Fiorn’s abode on the outskirts of the village; his shadow glanced over the windows of Drever’s tavern, shying away from the light which spilled from the front door. He continued past the blacksmith, where Freyl was just closing up; he took one look at the man and shut himself in the forge until he’d left, and wouldn’t open up for anybody.

He stopped at the Silkstring cottage, where the lights were still on and music was emanating from the open window, and knocked on the door.

The music stopped. There was the sensation of a shadow at the open window, and then the door opened just a crack.

The man tipped his hat to Hyla. He was two heads taller than her but thin as a rake, and the darkness of his dress only served to highlight how pale his features were. He examined her through dark eyeglasses which seemed perched on his absurdly high cheekbones.

‘Good evening miss,’ he said smartly, every syllable clipped. ‘My name is Huntington. I have a letter for you.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper with a wax seal on it. ‘May I come in?’

‘No,’ said Hyla curtly. ‘But you may pass it through the crack in the door so that I can read it.‘ Huntington did so, and Hyla made a great show of producing her axe and using that to cut the seal from the paper. She thudded the axe into the doorframe and opened the letter theatrically.

She read it twice over, and then a third time because she still couldn’t believe it. When she had done so, she folded it up and said quietly, through shock and fear, ‘Drever will have rooms available. I need to talk this over with some people before I can confirm that I will pay this.’ At this, Huntington leaned in close to the door, placing a hand on it as Hyla tried to push it shut.

‘The letter is quite explicit,’ he said, ‘as to the consequences should you refuse. I am afraid that this debt falls to you, but I shall await your answer patiently.’

With that, he turned smartly and left. Hyla slammed the door and sat against it as tears tracked down her cheeks. She read it once more, just to be sure.

Dear Ms Silkstring, it read. It has come to our attention that your parents, Inez and Salamane Silkstring, have passed away whilst in a considerable amount of debt to my client, Draeborne Skile. If you cannot provide one thousand, four hundred silver coins (or the equivalent) by the end of summer, our agents are authorised to collect the debt in any form available, up to and including goods, property, and livestock.

She could not read much farther than that, because her eyes were drawn back to that first sentence. And so Hyla Silkstring sat against her front door, for fear that the debt collector may return, and spent the night mourning her parents with her tears.