Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Read online

  Taking a deep breath and flinging a call to Rulve for help, he walked toward Padiky. She was their only way home.

  The two men stood solidly, watching him. If only he was wearing his well-padded jacket, or better yet, one of those suits of armor he’d seen in the red book of tales.

  He reached out to untie his horse, but Gwin grabbed his arm. “When I told you to leave Mariat alone, I meant it. And I meant now. After I’ve finished here, I’ll drive her home myself.”

  Voy leered at him. “With a few little stops along the way, I’ll bet.”

  All Sheft’s doubts about facing the two of them flashed into total commitment. “Get out of my way.”

  “You don’t want to tangle with me, hayseed.”

  “Because you’ve made it two against one?”

  Gwin glanced at Voy, who grinned and backed off, waving his hands in the air. Gwin thrust his face into Sheft’s. “Turn and walk away. Or else I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  “Try it.”

  Murderous intent leaped into Gwin’s eyes an instant before Sheft blocked his punch. The way Gwin’s thumb had slid around in Mariat’s hand, his disgusting insinuations, the brutal truth he had spewed—all boiled up in Sheft and exploded. He smashed his fist against the square jaw. Gwin tottered back, tripped over a weed-clump, and landed in a sitting position on the grass. A look of shock spread over his face. Padiky nervously sidled away.

  Sheft barely had time to register his own astonishment when Voy slammed into his legs. He went down, the other man on top of him. They pummeled each other, too close to do much damage, until Sheft managed to shove Voy away and scramble to his feet. Out of nowhere, Gwin’s big fist rammed into his cheek, which erupted in pain. Sheft reeled, constricting with ice, but just as he regained his balance, Voy pulled his arms behind his back.

  Regarding him with hate in his eyes, Gwin wiped blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.” He lunged.

  Sheft kicked out with both feet and hit Gwin in the legs. It was like hitting the side of a cow. The bigger man merely staggered back with a curse, but the recoil sent Sheft and Voy sprawling. Voy spun into position above his head, pinned down Sheft’s flailing right arm, then pounced on the left. Gwin leaped onto him, straddling him between his knees. Sheft’s spirikai screamed a warning, but the rank unfairness of the fight and Voy’s leering supposition flamed into a hard and angry determination. There would be—he jerked an arm free—no stops—he got one leg under Gwin’s knee—along the way! He strained to overturn him, but Gwin, red in the face, drew back his beefy fist.

  The blow never came. Someone stayed Gwin’s arm and pulled him roughly away.

  “No fightin’ in the horse field!” a man shouted. Two angry Fercians dragged Sheft and Voy, both breathing heavily, to their feet. A third, the tallest, held a stout club under Gwin’s nose.

  “Yer scaring’ the horses,” the tall man said. “Payin’ customers don’t like their horses all riled up.”

  “It’s them bumpkins from down At-Wysher,” the one holding Voy added. “Don’t know how to behave when they get into a real town.”

  The man who had pulled up Sheft peered into his face. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He was getting tired of people asking him that, but before he could answer, Gwin spoke up.

  “Can’t you see? He’s demon-seized and cursed by Ele. We were taking care of it. I’m the son of Rom, an elder on the Council of At-Wysher, and you have no right to interfere with my business.”

  “Demon-seized?” the second man said with a laugh. “As are many of them Wysher-ites, I’ve heard.”

  “Don’t matter who you are, or who he is,” the tall man said. “This is Ferce, not At-Wysher, and there’s no fightin’ in the horse field. You all get movin’ right now or pay a big fine.”

  Voy turned away. “He’s not worth any fine,” he said to Gwin. “We can take care of him for free back home.”

  “Not free,” Sheft muttered. “It’ll cost you.” But he knew who’d be the one to pay the price.

  Gwin glared at him. “This isn’t over. The line is crossed when you put your filthy hands all over our women. I warned you before, and you didn’t listen.” A hard gleam came into his eyes. “See you at the Rites, piss-head.”

  Gwin stalked off, massaging his fist, with Voy behind him. Two of the Fercians followed, threading their way through the milling horses.

  The tall man prodded him in the shoulder with his club. “Get out of our town,” he said. “Right now.”

  Sheft nodded, and the man moved off.

  His cheek felt wet. With clumsy fingers, Sheft fished a cloth out of his pocket and wiped his face with it; but the ice had done its work and nothing came off but dirt. His cheek throbbed though, and he could hardly untie the horse with a right hand that felt as if it were a bag of crushed bones. But it wasn’t bleeding either.

  Leading Padiky, he trudged toward the gate. He felt light-headed and foggy, and the ground seemed to shift under his feet. A full ice reaction was beginning and he didn’t want Mariat to see it. There was no secluded place, so he stopped in the midst of several grazing horses and positioned Padiky between him and the entrance gate. Quivering, he leaned his forehead against the horse’s neck, twined his good hand in her mane, and stood there until the worst had passed, and he could go on.

  By the time he got back to the wagon, a few drops of rain were falling. Mariat had already packed up their remaining wares, and she and the onion-lady were shoving the last trestle table boards into the wagon. Sheft winced as he got into his jacket, then harnessed the horse to the wagon while Mariat gave the woman a pot of honey for her trouble. Within minutes they were on the road home, and the drops increased to a drizzle.

  Mariat reached behind her and pulled out the pale yellow blanket, and moving close to Sheft, threw it over their heads. Then she asked him the dreaded question. “What happened to you?”

  Perhaps he could bluff her. “What do you mean?”

  “Sheft, it’s obvious. There’s a big bruise on your cheek and your hand is all swollen. You were in a fight, weren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “With…?”

  The anger he felt earlier flooded back. “With Gwin and Voy. Gwin decided to take Padiky and drive you home himself.” His voice became hard. “With stops along the way. I didn’t think you would care for it.”

  Her eyes filled with tender dismay. “I wouldn’t.” She put her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. “But he’d never get me to leave without you.”

  “Mariat, he was right in what he said about me. Any man in the village can give you a better life. For weeks I’ve wanted to speak to you about that, but I—didn’t have the courage.”

  The rain pattered on the road and glistened on Padiky’s haunches, but the blanket was keeping them dry. “Why,” Mariat murmured from beside him, “would it take courage?”

  He glanced down at the top of her head, then out at the wet and stony road. “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Then let’s not talk anymore about it. I won’t be lost, but will stay right beside you.” He held the reins in his left hand, and she gently took the right and cradled it in her lap.

  Ashamed of the dishonesty that hid things from her, but glad of what truth he had managed to speak, he laid down for a moment a great burden. On the rainy way home, the air was full of the smell of fallen leaves, and they sat under their private pale sun, as close to each other as love demanded.

  Chapter 10. Drone-flies

  Sitting with her two friends at the table, Ubela glanced out the open window in the back of the alehouse scullery. Nothing but muggy air came through. The unseasonable combination of yesterday’s rain with today’s hot sun left puddles in the street and humidity in the air. Drone-fly weather. A good, hard frost—already overdue—would get rid of them, but now they swarmed everywhere. Just like the small, persistent rumors she was itchin
g to pass on.

  The alehouse hadn’t opened yet; so Cloor, busy in the brew-shed out back, had set them to making bunches of flybane to hang from the rafters.

  She sat back in her chair, stretched luxuriously, then glanced around the table. “So we all agree Temo’s a bore. Who’s next?”

  Wena giggled. “I wonder if the guys talk about us like we talk about them.”

  Melis looked up from the pile of herbs she was sorting. Her long, thick lashes never failed to elicit a stab of envy in Ubela. “Of course they do. Only they say coarser things. So what’s your opinion of Delo’s boys, Ubela?”

  “Well, the younger son isn’t bad looking, except of course he’s so short. And the older one, Gede, has that tickly mustache.”

  “How do you know it tickles?” Wena asked, her eyes as wide as a puppy dog’s.

  Ubela made a face at her. “For Ele’s sake, girl. Take a guess.”

  “I found out about Gede’s mustache the same way you did,” Melis remarked, examining her nails.

  “What!” Ubela exclaimed.

  “Don’t get your nose out of joint. It was before you and he got together.”

  Ubela bit off a piece of string and tied a bunch of flybane together. “That’s over, anyway. Now I’m looking at Gwin. All those muscles under that tight shirt.” She spoke as casually as she could, but with a thrill of excitement at the risk. Gwin’s late-night visits to Cloor’s, after she was left alone to clean up, were a secret even from her friends. If her stepfather ever found out—but he wouldn’t.

  “What about the hayseed?” Wena asked. “He’s tall, with broad shoulders. And those seductive, unreadable eyes!” Her dreamy smile disappeared at Ubela’s snort. “Well, he’s tall, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Wena loves the hayseed,” Melis chanted, throwing flybane at her. “Wena loves the hayseed.”

  “I do not!” Wena brushed the leaves off her blouse. “He’s so strange I’d never want to be alone with him. Not really.” She blinked furiously, a habit, Ubela noticed, when something upset her—like getting caught in a lie.

  “Well you better not,” Ubela said, lowering her voice, “because I have a story to tell about him.”

  The girls leaned forward.

  “Yesterday, at the market-fair in Ferce, he and Mariat were seen together. With no brother or father anywhere around. I’m told he had his filthy hands all over her.”

  “She let him?” Wena, looking shocked, dropped her hands in her lap.

  “I heard it wasn’t a matter of let. I heard Mariat looked very scared.”

  “That’s not like Mariat to go off with someone like him,” Wena objected. “She used to be pretty sensible.” A terrible thought seemed to come to her, and she started blinking again. “Maybe she couldn’t help it. Maybe those eyes of his cast a spell on her, and took away her free will.”

  “I think that’s exactly what happened,” Ubela said. “Just listen to this. Someone I know has a friend up in Ferce, and this friend’s brother was one of the toll-takers at the fair. He actually remembers this wagon coming in from the south, which would be from here. A strange-looking man was driving, he said, and a young girl positively cowered next to him. The toll-taker said he wasn’t going to let them in, but this strange man gave him the evil eye, and the poor toll man found himself admitting them. There’s your proof that Wena is right.”

  “That’s hardly proof,” Melis scoffed.

  “Don’t be so naïve! The hayseed’s mother was a street-walker in a heathen city, a place crawling with sorcerers and wizards. Who knows what her son is?”

  “Tarn’s his father though,” Wena mused. “That makes the foreigner—”

  “A half-breed,” Ubela said. “Some kind of mongrel.”

  Melis pulled flybane twigs out of the pile in the center of the table and wound them with a string. “Everyone knows he’s demon-seized. We all saw one of those seizures at the harvest, right there in the common field. People like that don’t have any self-control.”

  “Every time he comes into town,” Ubela said, “he stares at me like a lecher.” She shivered daintily. “I swear his eyes take off every stitch of my clothes.”

  “Men seem to do that to you quite often,” Melis remarked.

  Ubela frowned at her, but Melis only lifted her eyebrows innocently.

  Wena, who seemed to have missed this exchange, wore a worried expression. “First you, Ubela, and now this business with Mariat. Why doesn’t the council step in?”

  “They never stepped in after Dorik’s son-in-law was killed,” Melis pointed out.

  “Well,” Ubela said, laying down the bunch of flybane she was working on. “That’s another whole story. It’s a scandal what went on in the Holdman’s house. People say Dorik’s daughter died having twins. They’re all denying it of course—two babies by two different men.” She raised her eyebrow again. “And with all of them living there together, with Dorik a widower, it isn’t hard to guess who the second man was.”

  Wena put her hands to her cheeks. “You’re terrible! Dorik with his own daughter? How can you say such things?”

  “It’s not just me. Everyone’s talking. And that’s not all.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “For sure there was two murders! The son-in-law has a convenient ‘accident,’ and the second twin is quietly disposed of. All to avoid scandal. Then the other baby died, so now there’s four deaths there, not three.”

  “Oh no!” Wena exclaimed.

  “Murder shmurder,” Melis said. “The foreigner is the real problem. He’s what you call a corrupting influence. Parduka always said so. Women used to feel safe here, and now look: we’re all in danger.” She pursed her lips, leaned back in her chair, and stared into the mid-distance. “Him and those dangerous silver eyes. That hard, lean body. He needs a strong woman to tame him.”

  Ubela shot a glance at her. “Your father would have a fit if he knew what you were thinking.”

  Melis pulled a sprig of lavender that had gotten into the pile and brushed it reflectively under her nose. “I’m not thinking anything, Ubela. What are you thinking?”

  “If Mariat got taken in,” Wena said in a small voice, “then none of us are safe. The council is supposed to do something. It’s their job to protect the women of our village.”

  “He’s strong, and he’s quiet,” Melis said. “You’d never hear him coming. Once he got you alone in some barn, just imagine what he could do to you.”

  Silence fell upon the group, and Ubela did imagine it, her heart pounding with forbidden scenarios. Scenarios shared, by the look of them, with the other two: Wena with a blush creeping up her cheeks, and Melis with the hint of a half-smile playing over her lips.

  Ubela glanced into the alehouse. Cloor would open up soon, and Gwin would surely come in later. She pulled the neckline of her blouse down over her shoulders, spit on her fingers, and twirled her hair into ringlets over her ears.

  # # #

  The warm drizzle started up again just after Gwin joined his father at Cloor’s. He had two reasons for going there, one of them named Ubela. Last time, she’d let him get his hands under her blouse. This time, she might be even more accommodating. Voy was sitting at the table, already in his cups, along with Vehoke, Delo the cattleman, and Cloor himself. Pogreb was there too, but the old man sat facing the hearth and ignored the others.

  “No customers in the general store either?” Gwin remarked to Vehoke.

  The thin, earnest-eyed man wiped his long nose in a handkerchief and shook his head mournfully. “It’s the rain. More days like these will make a pauper out of me.”

  “I hear you,” Rom said. “The road gets so bad in that hollow north of here the farmers can’t make it down to my shop.” He turned to Delo. “So how are those two boys of yours?”

  Delo folded his hands over his ample stomach. “They work too hard, especially Gede. Poor boy lives like a monk, devoted to the cattle, you know. Just like in your smithy, Rom. What would you do without Gwin
here?”

  Gwin smiled sourly as his father clapped him on the shoulder. He’d had another run-in with Rom’s second wife, and his father—again—had taken her side.

  A drone-fly buzzed past Vehoke, and he tried to snatch it from the air, but missed.

  “Now you’ve knocked it into my ale,” Voy said, peering into his mug. “Ubela,” he shouted. “Bring me another round!”

  “Just fish it out,” Vehoke said. “It surely hasn’t drunk as much as you have.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did.

  Ubela sashayed in to refill their cups, and Gwin exchanged a glance with her—I’ll see you later tonight. He noticed with disapproval that his father stared appreciatively as the little flirt left the room. When he turned back to the others, Delo was peering at his face.

  “That’s a big bruise you’ve got there,” he said.

  Gwin rubbed his jaw, which was still sore. “It happened at the market-fair yesterday. You didn’t hear about it?”

  Nobody had, and all looked as if they wanted to. It was what he had counted on. “Well, the whole thing bothers me, bothers me quite a bit.” Gwin waved a fly away and looked around the table at the expectant faces. “Here’s the story. Voy and I took Oris up there for the day. The other two were getting something to eat, and I was buying some honey for my stepmother, when I looked up and almost dropped the jar. Not two strides away from me was the foreigner. He had Mariat with him, you know, Moro’s daughter? She was alone, no brother or anything. His hands were all over her and he was dragging her toward his wagon.”

  “He abducted her?” Delo asked in a shocked tone.

  Gwin spread out his hands. “I’m not accusing anyone. All I’m saying is she looked small and scared, and he just loomed over her.”

  “He musht’ve seen her on the road and lured her into coming with him,” Voy said.