Callaghan 1

IV

“Gather round, all!” that familiar flowery voice called out as my stomach sank through the floor.

He stood on a stool in front of the hearth, his round face atop a lanky frame giving the

appearance of a head of cabbage mounted on a pike, waving his fiddle and bow in the air as

though attempting to fan himself. “The time’s come for merriment and dance, for I have

arrived!”

A drunken roar drowned the minstrel’s cries for order, so he made do with bringing his

arms together at his chest and spreading them to his side repeatedly—the blue and grey diamond

patterned sleeves of his jacket slapping against each other with a soft clap of fabric—until the

crowd understood. The room filled with the scraping of wood on wood as they pulled benches

and tables away from the fire and into one of the darker corners, much to the disdain of those

seeking to make use of them. Soon a large patch of the dusty floor lay bare before the stool

which served as his grandstand. It didn’t stay bare for long, however, as patrons swarmed it in a

manner akin a spilled drink on a clay plate. I attempted to bury my face in my hands as the

dancing began, longing to make a dash for the stairs and my bed, but the path allowed no cover

to shield me from that lout.

“Cand, what are you doing? Surely you remember Ulrik,” Ronan said through what I’m

sure was a grin that bridged his ears.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Callaghan 2

Ronan drummed his fingers on the table in time with the stomps of the dancers as the

fiddle sang its jaunty song. I couldn’t help but find my foot tapping along, itching to get up and

join the throng. Were it anybody else playing …

The song was nearing its end before Ronan spoke again. “Wonder if he takes requests,

would love to hear me ‘The Senn’s Daughter.’” His stool creaked as he stood, “Hoi!”

“Dammit, get down!” I hissed, uncovering my face as I yanked him back to his seat. I

stole a glance at the stage. Ulrik stole it back. “Ronan, I swear I will…” my threat came to an

abrupt end with a sudden ending to the song.

“A break!” Ulrik yelled. This earned him no friends among the patrons, who were not shy

about letting him know. Resigned to my fate, I looked back just in time to see him sidestep a jug

destined for his pointed nose, which shattered instead on the stones above the fireplace. Oskar

seemed to emerge from nowhere to toss the jug-thrower with poor aim from the inn. Just as he

gave the man a shove out the door, the opposite bench scraped the floor.

“Why, if it isn’t the fair Candas,” that damned voice said.

I groaned, turning my gaze to the paradoxically plump face. “Hoi, Ulrik.”

“Ah, and master Ronan.”

Ronan’s eyes flared, though he kept his grin. “Odd seeing you here, thought you were

heading to Luscien to ‘share your gift with the world.’”

“Alas.” He gave a dramatic sigh which carried the stench of whisky, “Their

unpleasantness with Jarantal has made travel of the country uncomfortably dangerous. I had to

make do falling in with a merchant caravan bound for Rathel. Unfortunate I had to call off my

Luscinen debut, but I suppose Varantia is a large enough stage for the time being.”

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Don’t think all Halmsgar is stage enough for your boasting. I wanted to say that, but said

nothing. Ronan just chuckled, “Aye, suppose so.” He kicked back his stool with a hideous

grinding noise and stood. “Think I’ll see if I can’t get some more words with Astred. Mind

keeping Cand outta trouble for me, Ulrik?”

I shot Ronan the ugliest look I could muster as Ulrik spoke. “Of course. This fine inn

doesn’t pay near enough for me to leave such a lovely woman unattended.”

Ronan turned his grin to me as he abandoned his seat and strode back toward the bar,

leaving me alone with him.

“So…” the brown hair that hung to his chin fluttered with the word, “the moons have

only gone through four cycles since our last meeting, yet it feels as eternity. How’ve you been

faring?”

I longed to tell him to piss off—and doubly so to threaten my knife to give him another

hole to piss from—but resolved not to make a scene. “Fine,” I let out all my breath on the one

word.

He didn’t remove his gaze from me even as I refused to meet it. “Just fine? Well, I’ll aim

to change that. I assure you, I have thought of you often since last we met.” He shot me a smile I

felt rather than saw. “Even tried my hand at writing a song, though I feared I might not do your

wit and beauty justice.” I wasn’t sure how to respond so I only nodded. “Oh, come now,” he

continued. “I recall last time you gave me several good lashings with that sharp tongue of yours.

Has it lost its edge?”

If he weren’t such a dullard, I would’ve feared such a remark to be of two meanings.

“Sleep usually sharpens it up, I think I might just head upstairs.”

Callaghan 4

“Oh come, come. The night’s only just begun and already you are thinking of bed?”

“Aye, the night is young, but my day ‘s old. Rode about six hours to get here.”

“Six hours?” he scoffed. “I’ve wandered far longer from inn to inn and still needed to

perform on the other side. Though I am a man of great endurance.” His eyes gave his lips a

break. As I’m sure you remember, they said in a glance. “You’re spending the night here I take

it?”

I nodded, seeing it pointless to lie.

“As am I, though I wasn’t in time for a bed. Got shifted to the common room. Damned

floor always does a number on my back,” he said with a stretch. “How about you?”

I peered past his narrow shoulders to the bar. Ronan was once more conversing with

Astred, though she had upped the ante: sitting in his lap, seeming unable to breathe from

laughter. I grimaced and continued scanning the area for something—or someone—that could

excuse me from this situation. Eventually I settled on Mikkel, whose sight, as luck would have it,

met mine. “Little help…” I mouthed to him as my eyes darted from his to the oaf in front of me.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” Ulrik said.

My gaze focused just over his shoulder again, “I said I got a bed.”

“Always so drafty up there, damn near caught my death last time I stayed…” He cleared

his throat and shot me a wicked grin, “y’know, if you get cold in the night I’m quite the

accomplished bed-warmer.”

I had enough; manners be damned. “I assure you, if I were so desperate for warmth I

would sooner set the bedding on fire. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need some fresh air.”

I stood. So did he, sending his bench to the floor with a clatter. “I’ll join you.”

Callaghan 5

“Like hell you will!” Mikkel put a meaty palm on Ulrik’s shoulder, “I didn’t pay you to

talk, lad. I paid you to play and keep me guests happy. Now get’cher arse back up there unless

you wish to continue your talks with Oskar!”

Ulrik nodded. “Aye, sir. Merely lost track of time.” He gave one last grin as he trudged

back to his makeshift stage.

I gave Mikkel a smile which he returned before making his way back to the bar. Resigned

to a trip outside, I strode toward the door which Oskar opened for me, trading nods as I stepped

through.

Callaghan 6

V

The cleanness of the air outside seemed almost strange to my nose as I cleared the threshold and

stepped down the stone steps. The sweet stench of burning wood mixed with the pungent odor of

shit from the stables replaced that of stale smoke and spilled beer. It almost seemed brighter

outside than in the fire-lit inn, as Ydara and Volanta both hung full in the sky, their light casting

the world in shades of dark blue. A bad omen for both moons to be so large, according to those

who believe such things. True to the phrase spoken with Davitt, the larger, pocked face of

Volanta showed thin streams of bright orange, just visible behind a sparse veil of clouds. The

soft mud just outside the door still bore the markings where the jug-marksman had been ejected.

I knew they belonged to him, because he was still making them, face planted perilously close to

what looked like dog shit.

“That’s no place for a nap, mate,” I prodded him with my boot.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, showing baggy eyes over rosy cheeks on a mud-

spattered head of thinning hair. A mocking smile sprang to my lips as I recognized the man. “If it

isn’t Victor the fomori-slayer. Or, should I say, the wannabe minstrel-slayer?”

“Shuttit ya whore,” his voice had lost its boastful ring.

“Hmph, and there was me thinking of helping you up, but now I see you and the dirt

could use more intimacy.” He muttered something in his stupor which I hadn’t the patience to

decipher as I stepped over him and marched toward the stables, thinking to visit Aecha.

The stench of shit grew only stronger the closer I got to the dull-brown building, seeming

to have fastened itself immovably to the aging timbers that formed its frame. Hay crunched

underfoot as I passed through the gates and into the stable proper, a large room divided into ten

Callaghan 7

smaller ones, the occupants of which snorted and stamped at my entrance. Slits in the wall

provided the faintest moonlight, giving the horse-inn an eerie glow. Save for the section in the

far-left corner, from which radiated the unmistakable orange light of a candle.

Curious, I crept toward the light, which showed itself as a lantern propped up beside the

stable boy in a vacant cell. The boy’s hair matched the color of the surrounding straw, though his

cheeks were the hue of a fresh cherry. In his hand, he clutched a small leather flask from which

he pulled a draw.

“Whatcha got there?” I said.

The boy jumped to his feet as he whisked the flask behind his back. “Oi! Don’tcha know

not to sneak up on people!”

I smirked, “Calm down lad; don’t want anyone else seeing ya with that, do you?

“No clue whatcher talkin’ bout.” His left eye twitched.

“Oh, come off it. Now, what’s in the flask behind your back?”

He sighed, “Dream sap.”

“Aesholc, of course. Well, pass it here then.”

“What!? Getcher own!”

“All right, if you want to be that way.” I turned to the door and gave a half-hearted call.

“Guards!”

“Gods, fine!” the lad shouted as something hit my leg. I found the flask in the straw at my

feet. After giving it a quick wipe on my trousers, I pulled out the stopper with my teeth. Taking a

second to breathe in the deep, sweet stench of the sap within, I spit the cork out, allowing it to

Callaghan 8

dangle forlorn from the string tethering it to the pouch as I took a quick swig, or as quick as I

could manage with a drink so thick.

The sap clung to the roof of my mouth as I swished what little I had taken around with

my tongue, enjoying the tangy and sweet taste. I replaced the stopper as I swallowed and passed

it back to the stable-boy. It hit me at once, that familiar giddy rush of tingles which reached out

to my fingers and toes as my head spun in glorious euphoria.

“Whoa,” I said as the initial high passed, “the nectar of the Gods, that. Who sold it to

you?”

“Bloke at the inn.” He seemed surprised to have gotten his flask back. “Bald man, great

bushy beard.” He resumed his seat against the aged wood of the divider. “Didn’t give a name.

Just gave the flask to keep me mouth shut about the rest in the wagon out back.”

“Would seem he should’ve kept it then.”

“What are you…” it took the lad a second before he realized, “Oh, bugger me. Take the

rest, just…”

“Don’t worry lad,” I laughed. “I’m not going to go to the watch; have a vested interest in

his freedom.”

“Thanks,” he took another deep swig.

I yawned and peered into his face. His eyes were starting to lose focus. “So, you do

anything for fun out here?”

“Got this,” he gave a pat to something at his side.

“A crossbow?”

“Aye, in case I need to scare off any thieves that come looking for guest's horses.”

Callaghan 9

I doubted the bow would scare off even the greenest of bandits. Mikkel apparently felt his

windfall was best put to better uses than arming his groom as the make was basic, with a thick

wooden stock supporting a scrawny steel prod.

“You know how to use that?”

“Take shots at the straw-man in the barley field out back now and then.”

“Mind if I see?”

“It’s nightfall.”

“C’mon, the moons are big tonight. Besides, if you can’t hit a strawman in the dark, what

makes you think you can hit a bandit?”

The boy groaned and sank deeper into the straw.

I turned toward the entrance. “Y’know, perhaps the watch will offer a bounty for…”

“All right, all right.” he cut me off, using the bow as a crutch to push himself to his feet.

He wobbled only slightly as he stood, but soon regained his bearings and led me out of the

stables. Stepping outside, I stole a peek at the entrance to the inn. Victor the Minstrel-Slayer was

nowhere to be seen. Instead, two figures rushed from the door. The only details I picked out at

the distance were an almost comically large chest on one and a mess of black hair on the other. I

looked away as a twinge in my chest demanded my attention; a bad reaction to the sap, perhaps.

“Hoi!” the boy called, grabbing a quiver of bolts that hung on the side of the stables

furthest from the inn, “you coming?”

I nodded and jogged to catch up.

“Names Gallen by the way, remember the dark-haired bloke you were with earlier said

your name was Cand.”

Callaghan 10

“Candas,” I snapped.

“Eh? That his pet name for you or something?”

“C’mon, lest we lose what little light we’ve got,” I took point around the corner of the

stables.

Behind them lay the barley fields, now bare but for a few straggling stalks missed or

ignored by the farmers. In the summer, the amber stalks had grown up to my waist, and made

such beautiful rustling noises as they bowed to the wind. It had seemed so romantic in my

damned stupor that night with Ulrik.

I shook my head free of the thought as I spotted the strawman about fifteen paces away; a

lone sentinel standing guard over an empty castle, awaiting the many lords return. He even

sported a helmet, as sitting atop its head, in brazen defiance of his purpose, was a crow. Its beady

eyes darted back and forth over the empty fields as it sank its talons deep into the scalp of the

stalwart strawman. “Seems we’ve got a straggler,” I stated, more to keep my mind focused than

anything else as the sap began to take hold.

“Aye,” said Gallen as he caught up. “Thought they would’ve all flown off by now.”

“Perhaps he fell behind, or maybe he’s too lame to follow,” I said. “Give you five arels if

you can get it.”

“You’re on,” he replied in a whisper, planting a bolt at the lock and placing two fingers

on the lever. His hands shook while he peered down the stock with one eye and squeezed.

Wasn’t even close. The bow twanged, and the bolt whizzed through the air, missing its

target by a yard at least before it was lost to the night. The crow didn’t budge, lending more

credence to my lame theory, or perhaps the attempt was so bad it didn’t even realize its peril.

Callaghan 11

“Dammit. Always hangs to the left.”

“Let me see it.”

He nodded and passed me the bow.

I studied the mechanisms, pulled on the string, and gave the knots a quick glance. The

scrawny thing had a heavier draw than I had guessed, forcing me to plant my boot in the stirrup

to yank the string back over the lock. “Bolt,” I ordered, holding out a hand. He obliged, and I

dropped the quarrel into place. Taking a knee to steady my aim, I peered down the stock and

centered the point on the crow. It ruffled its feathers, briefly making it appear as a mess of black

hair on the strawman’s head. I adjusted and fired.

The crow gave a pained cry as the bolt passed almost clean through it. “Yep,” I handed

the bow back, “definitely hangs to the left.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” The lad did a poor job of hiding his surprise.

“Been hunting with a similar make for around seven years.”

“You’re a hunter?” he said with more than a hint of skepticism.

“Yep, I keep the mouths fed back home.” Still he seemed taken aback. “They tried

putting me in the berry gardens at first but thought better of it after every bush I cared for lost the

will to live.” I chuckled before continuing, “Suffice to say they found it more prudent to make

killing my thing afterward. Any rate, you’re too nervous, though mayhap that’s cause I was

watching. You’re too tense as well; advantage of a crossbow is you can let the nut do all the

work for you. Just span it, relax and aim. Got it?”

I could tell he wasn’t listening. “Mind if I take the bird? Should cook up nice in a stew.”

“It’s all yours,” I laughed. “You keep practicing; I’m gonna go visit my horse.”

Callaghan 12

He nodded and ran off to retrieve the downed animal as I made my way back around the

stables. Just behind them, I noticed a large merchant’s cart painted in a drab green color.

Figuring it to be Davitt’s, I took a quick peek in the back, and found it filled with a wide variety

of inane odds and ends, as well as a few large pots labeled “Hunny.” I could scarce contain my

laughter; if that truly was all it took to fool the guards, mayhap I missed my calling as an aesholc

smuggler. I was tempted to sneak more of the stuff, but figured it wasn’t worth risking the ire of

the one on whom so much depended.

Leaving the wagon and continuing to the other side of the stable, I heard the call of

Ulrik’s fiddle still emanating from the entrance to The Goblin. “The Senn’s Daughter.” I

recognized the tune. “I bet Ronan’s happy.”

If he’s done with that tramp.

I cringed at the thought and reminded myself to drown it in cider the first chance I got. I

hovered near the door as the song reached its end. Ulrik was milking the last few notes for all

they were worth before it came to a close, punctuated by a roar from the crowd.

Returning to the dank and smelly interior of the stables, I found Euron chomping on oats

from a feedbag. Aecha was in the stall beside him, though where Euron’s bag almost completely

limp, hers seemed nearly full. “Always been the slow eater, girl.” I patted her head, recalling all

the sleepless nights I had spent with her and a rag soaked in her mother’s milk when she was a

foal. She snorted as I ran my fingers through her coarse, chestnut hair. “Eh?” I withdrew my

hand. “Something up?”

The stable grew silent for a moment, save for the sound of crunching hay somewhere

near the entrance. “Hello?” I called out, not looking away from Aecha, “Stable boys out back, go

see him if you want…”

Callaghan 13

Something grabbed me by the shoulder and slammed me against the divider. “Damned

Skalt bitch!” a man’s voice called out. Aecha gave out a muffled whinny from behind her

feedbag as thick fingers dug into my hair and ground my left cheek against the wood, pushing

splinters into my face. My attacker slammed against me, pinning my left hand at my back and

driving my face upward against what felt like a nail. The taste of blood filled my mouth as

something pulled at my belt, accounting for his other hand and leaving my right free. The

surprise left me unable to force him off and my legs in a bad position to kick. Only option left to

me was the knife in my left sleeve.

I groped behind me, attempting to find the steel which could prove my salvation. Instead

of my arm, I met with a fleshy, hairy one. My belt went slack, and the sound of a sharp intake of

breath joined the snorts and stamps. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps desperation, or perhaps my

innermost mind knew what I didn’t. Whatever the reason, I grabbed onto the arm and squeezed.

Callaghan 14

VI

The man’s screams and the whinnies of horses echoed throughout the stable. A light

hissing noise, just audible beneath this cacophony, reached my ears as my fingers sank into their

mark. It was a strange sensation—almost as squeezing a rotten apple—but I did not relent. My

hand grew warm as the soft flesh gave way to something hard and smooth. An odd smell arose—

disgusting and rank, with a hint of sweetness which served only to make it worse—as something

warm and thick enveloped my hand. It felt as though I had stuck it in thick oatmeal. The

screaming continued as the hand in my hair released.

Not wasting any time, I shoved my head backwards into my attacker. A soft crack just

registered over the cries of panicking horses as the back of my skull collided with the front of

his, giving the scream a muffled aspect. He tried to pull away, but I held his arm fast. With a

foul, wet sound, I let go and allowed myself to collapse to the ground. I was exhausted—far, far

more than I would have expected—as I heard my assailant take a few stumbling steps and rush

out the doorway.

Panting, I looked at my hands. My left seemed a darker shade of red as blood flowed

freely through it once more, while my right was framed by a foul sludge. Lifting it to check the

palm, I found it stained black with the gunk, and the stench grew stronger as I brought it closer to

my face. My throat seized as my stomach objected. I slammed my hand back to the hay and

retched.

“What the hell happened!?!” a voice called over the clambering horses. After spitting the

final dregs of vomit into the hay, I turned to see Gallen standing above me, loaded crossbow in

hand.

Callaghan 15

“Someone… attacked me.” I panted.

His eyes widened as he pointed the crossbow in all directions, “What!? Who?”

“I dunno,” I rolled over and laid on my back.

He stared down at me, “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I propped myself on my elbows.

He offered a hand to help me up but revoked it as he saw the foulness on the one I offered

back. “What the hell is that?”

“No clue.” I struggled to prop myself up on an arm. “I need to clean up, excuse me.”

“Let me help you.”

“No,” my legs shook as I stood. “I can get to the river myself.”

I stood and ran outside without another word. My body felt numb, and the world came to

me through a haze as my legs slunk along of their own accord. The fresh air was sweet relief

from the repulsive stench though again my throat livened with an acidic taste. I redoubled my

efforts and sprinted toward where the river cut into the town proper, covering the sizable distance

faster than I would have imagined possible. Just when it seemed I couldn’t hold it back any

longer I reached the bank, collapsed to all fours in the silt and vomited into the water.

The river carried the foulness away in its rushing waters, leaving me staring at my

reflection in its dark surface. Though distorted by the current, I could see in the moonlight that

my right cheek was raw and red. A single long, deep cut ran diagonally across, blood flowing

from it to my chin and dripping to run red with the river. I tried to touch it, but relented as the

stench returned with my hand. Choking back another bit of vomit, I shoved it in the river. It was

freezing cold, almost immediately numbing my fingers, but I left it in as the black gunk freed

Callaghan 16

itself and floated downstream. I held it under until it was entirely cleaned, and then for a time

longer, only taking it out when it grew too cold for me to continue. With a sigh of relief, I pulled

it out to find it rid of the foulness, save a trace of black remaining beneath the nails.

A slight burning sensation drew my attention back to my cheek, which gave way to a

searing pain as I put a finger to it. The cut ran deep.

“Deep enough to scar,” I moaned to myself.

With cupped hands, I threw water into my face, crying out in pain as it stung at the

wound. Despite this, I grit my teeth and rubbed another cupped hand's worth into it. I allowed the

blood to flow free for a time, draining into the river and creating a steady flow of red in the

moonlit waters until it slowed and stopped. With a wince, I flushed it one last time and stood.

My legs were rubbery, and still the hint of that foul stench lingered as I walked back to The

Goblin.

I pressed open the door and was met by a wide-eyed Oskar, “Candas! What the hell

happened to you?!”

“I…”

I searched my mind for an answer but found none.

“Tripped.” I murmured.

He seemed taken aback and blustered about a visiting barber surgeon sitting at the bar,

but I just looked to the ground and itched my ear, lost in my own thoughts as I trudged past and

searched for a familiar face. Many patrons stared and murmured. A few pointed and others

sniffed at the air as I walked past. I grew sick of this attention—and didn't find Ronan—so I took

Callaghan 17

a seat at an empty table. Ulrik was missing from the stage. In his place stood - or rather staggered

—an unimpressive man with a far more impressive demijohn clutched in his hand.

“Oh, he flew through the alleys and leapt the pits, a shield he stole to hide his bits,” he

sang as the crowd clapped along to give a beat.

I studied my hands in the candlelight, taking in all the details of the long fingers and pale

knuckles. Nothing out of the ordinary; everything to the last freckle on the backs were as they

should be. I knew it couldn’t have been mystic; wasn’t any sort of healing, certainly, and I lacked

the talent to be a pyromancer. As this thought crossed my mind I stared at my sleeve where it hid

the small scar on my forearm, and inched my hands further from the candle which had sagged to

the table.

I broke from my trance when the crowd gave a loud “Hey!” and burst into the chorus of

what I then recognized as ‘Flight of the Sap Drinker’. That, or maybe it was Ronan slamming a

large platter of pottage and bread in front of me.

“Hoi,” he said as he pulled a seat across from me. “I hope you didn’t miss…” he paused

as I looked to his face. “Blood and bile! What happened to you?”

I sighed, “Tripped into a post.”

“A post?” He repeated in a drawl. “Something wrong with your ear?”

“No.” I yanked my hand away from it. “Where were you, anyway?”

“Out for a walk.”

“With Astred?”

His eyes flashed. “Aye. I’ll have you know she wanted me to keep watch for her while

she took a piss out by the woods; lots of unsavory characters out tonight.”

Callaghan 18

“Uh-huh,” I replied, lacking the energy to give my eyes a roll. “You’ve got grass stains

on your trousers.”

The corners of my mouth twitched at the slight pink flush that rushed to his cheeks as he

inspected the green marks at his knees. “Ah … yes, must’ve happened when we stopped for

lunch,” he lied. He tried to change the subject as he took a seat. “Do you smell something?”

I shook my head.

“It’s weak but…” He gave a sniff. “It reminds me of that time we found the squirrel in

that forgotten snare, you remember?”

“Aye, but I still smell nothing.”

“Bah, maybe I stepped in some horse shit. Anyway, Astred was kind enough to offer me

this for just a half-arel, so eat up.”

I nodded, broke the bread in half, dipped it in the rather sparse and mealy pottage, and

crammed it into my mouth. I hadn’t even realized I was hungry til I was chewing on the too-big

chunk. In fact, I couldn’t recall ever feeling so hungry; or thirsty.

“Mikkel!” I called through a mouth stuffed with bread, “The usual!”

The innkeeper’s ears proved sharp as ever as he turned to face me even over the tail of

the chorus. His gaze lingered for a second on the cut, but he gave a nod before grabbing a glass

from behind him.

“Candas,” Ronan said as he dipped a bit of bread in and out of the pottage, “that is a

nasty cut, and it’s still bleeding.”

I put a hand to my bulging cheek. It came back red.

“I’m going to ask you one more time and pray don’t lie again. What happened?”

Callaghan 19

I took in a sharp breath through my nose, mouth still stuffed with bread. I swallowed and

opened it to begin.

The door slammed open, shaking dust from the rafters and bringing an abrupt end to both

my impending confession and the singing.

Oskar yelled, “You! Get out!”

“Where’s she,” came another voice — a stuffy, slurred voice. “Where’s the skalt witch?”

I turned to the entrance and saw none other than Victor the Minstrel Slayer. Unattractive

shades of black, blue and dark red bloomed in splotches about his nose. A stained flax bandage

covered his right arm, which hung limp at his side. And he smelled. By the gods, even over the

distance from the entrance to our table he smelled. Several nearby patrons gagged, and even the

stalwart Oskar clamped his nose shut.

“Thought you’d got the hint to sober up elsewhere, Victor. What’re you doin’ back

here?” shouted Mikkel, dust bobbing at the top of the mug of cider in his hand.

“To find the whore who did this!” he thrust his face forward and pointed to his arm,

almost stumbling over from the effort. I sank into my chair and made to throw my hood over my

face, forgetting my cloak was in the saddlebag.

“I owe whoever did that a drink, so point ‘em out, then piss off!”

He regained his footing, and his eyes darted around the room, til they focused on…

“Her!” he cried, pointing a thick finger at me.

The inn fell silent, save for Ulrik, who had reappeared at his now vacant grandstand and

took advantage of the silence to tune his fiddle. It seemed all eyes in the inn were on me. I made

Callaghan 20

to sit up, to put on a façade of bravery which I failed to muster. In as low a voice as I could

manage, I spoke. “You… you deserved worse than a broken nose.”

“Nose nothing!” He waved at his injured arm. “It’s me arm you have to answer for,

witch!”

“Enough of this!” Mikkel slammed a fist on the bar. “It’s clear enough what happened

and looks like you got her as bad as she got you. You’d best be leavin’ now if you want to be

scarce of town before I set the watch on your arse!”

Victor grunted—in pain or desperation, I did not know—and pulled the bandage on his

arm aside. Gasps sounded from all around the room as the stench grew stronger. A woman at a

nearby table fainted at the sight, as a call of, “By all the Gods!” came from a voice I recognized

as Davitt’s.

His forearm was a wreck. A large portion appeared to have atrophied, leaving healthy,

full muscle to either side. The skin had taken on a ragged, dark texture, almost as parchment. It

appeared thin to the touch, with a network of cracks running throughout. Four indents ran across

the inside, each about as thick as one of my fingers. Above, the skin flushed, while below was a

shade of deepest blue, near black. This was save for the fingers, which were the same deep red as

near his elbow.

“What the hell…” muttered Ronan, his big eyes made all the bigger as he gaped at the

horror.

“How did that happen?” Mikkel stammered.

“Ask her!” replied Victor, pointing his uninjured arm at me.

The crowd fell silent—even Ulrik stopped tuning his fiddle—and stared at me.

Callaghan 21

I wanted to sink through the floor; to the cellar, to the bedrock, then further still. Surely

the terrors of The Great Dark at the center of the world held nothing on the curious eyes which

lined the room. Tears threatened to blur my vision, but I blinked them back and swallowed my

cries. “I…”

The door slammed against the wall, interrupting me and marking the entrance of a small

lad with straw colored hair.

“Master Mikkel!” called Gallen as he ran toward the bar, pushing his way through the

throng of guests who had gathered around Victor. “Saw the whole thing meself!” A slight

tinkling sound marked each of the boy’s steps. “He attacked her in the stables, she fought back.”

He panted as he reached Mikkel, “Hit him in the arm with this!” With a raise of his arm, he

revealed the source of the tinkling as a broken lantern.

Mikkel took the lantern and inspected it. “The oil must’ve still been burning, singed the

flesh straight to the bone.”

“Lies!” Victor shouted as he rushed at Gallen. “Filthy little stable-rat, I’ll wring your

neck!”

Oskar took charge of the situation at last and tackled the oaf, shaking yet more dust from

the ceiling as a table—abandoned the second before impact—broke beneath their combined

weight. “Liar!” Victor cried as Oskar dragged him by his foot toward the door, blood streaking

from a fresh cut on his forehead to trail on the planks. “Covering for that witch! You brat!

You…” his last word went unheard as Oskar slammed the door behind him.

A thick silence hung in the room for half a minute before a low din of chatter finally

returned, which soon regrew to deafening levels as Ulrik strung up another tune. Mikkel returned

Callaghan 22

to the bar, tipping the mug of cider over the trough. Oskar had not yet returned. Whether he was

handing Victor off to the watch or continuing to rough him up, I did not know. I caught Gallen’s

eye as he made his way back to the door and offered him a weak smile, which he returned before

making his way out.

Soon Mikkel came with my drink. “I’m sorry ‘bout that bit of unpleasantness there

Candas,” he said in a strange, serious tone, “will ‘nae be sorry to see the last of Victor; was

growing tired of all his tales of fomoiri and pixies and witches.”

I nodded, feigning a sense of ease as I raised the cider to my lips. “seemed to have quite

the imagination.”

“Quite.” Before I could take a sip, he leaned forward, putting us almost nose-to-nose. He

whispered, “It was ’nae oil which caused that wound. I dunno what could—nor want to—but I

figured that much. And I’m no learned man. If I know, someone else does. Some’ll be

whispering mysticism. Some might even go to the Ironclad... I would leave Yrenna before

morrow’s light if I were you.”

I lowered the mug, “But…”

Mikkel shook his head, eyes wide. He spoke in a tone which implied yelling though still

it came as a whisper. “Do’nae be coming to me with ‘but’. I cannot have word getting around I

am harboring mystics. The Ironclad have already come knocking about that Logan boy." The

corners of his mouth faltered, “Said they’d burn the place to the ground if I didn’t tell them

where to find ‘im.”

I dropped my mug to the table with a loud thunk and splash. “Wh… what?”

Callaghan 23

Mikkel pointed a finger at me, eyes flaring though his brow drooped. “Do’nae make me

repeat it, lass.”

Ronan pushed himself from the table and made to stand, tensing up in that way he did

before a spar.

“No,” I spoke in a rushed whisper, looking with what I hoped was pleading at Ronan. He

seemed to get the message as he sat back down and instead made with ripping off a chunk of

bread. “I’ll leave. Quietly.”

Mikkel’s large gut shrank as he let out a sigh. “I’ll tell Ulrik to rouse the place so you can slip

out, and will do what I can to keep a lid on this, if not just for me own sake.” He gave a heavy

swallow behind a frown before adding, “I do’nae think I have to say what I’ll hav’ta do if you

darken me threshold again.”

I stared into the depths of the cider, at the reflection of my cheek, at the drop which

stained the pale drink red, before giving a quick nod.

His face morphed back to his usual jovial grin in a flash as he pulled away from me.

“Good.”

Mikkel stood as the door opened for the third time. Oskar reentered the inn, wiping

something deep red from his hands on a stained bit of wool as he pushed the door closed again

with his foot.

I turned back to Ronan as Mikkel trudged away. He still wore an expression that hinted at

anger below the surface, and seemed not to have realized the bit of bread in his hand had soaked

through, pottage dripping from it and his fingers in equal measure. “So… you tripped.”

“Shut it,” I snapped. “And eat up.”

Callaghan 24

He sighed, and plopped the soggy bit into his mouth, giving an exaggerated swallow

before continuing, “Guess it’s a good thing we packed those bedrolls then.”

“Y’know, he only said I had to leave,” I said between rushed mouthfuls of pottage, its

taste tainted by the strong tang of iron, “you could stay, enjoy a nice warm bed with Astred, meet

up in the morning—assuming I’m not eaten by wolves.”

“You?” he said with a scoff. “They’d choke before they got more than a few mouthfuls.

And I’m offended you’d even suggest that.” He reached a hand toward mine. I pulled it away. He

sighed, “Candas, I'm coming with you. What the hell makes you think I wouldn't?”

“Forget it,” I said, dropping the last of my bread into the pottage with a plop drowned by

the shrill shriek of a fiddle.

Several slapped hands over their ears as Ulrik dragged the bow across the strings. “Hoi!”

he called once he had the inn’s attention, “Mikkel has just told me this is the last song he’s

willing to pay me for tonight, so last chance to stamp your feet before I retire. Now, does anyone

have a request?”

The inn erupted with sound as it seemed everyone had a song for the minstrel, ranging

from the typical drinking anthems, to depressing ballads, to songs I’m convinced were the

inventions of those shouting their names.

“Guess that’s our cue,” I mouthed to Ronan, giving my head a jerk toward the exit in case

he’d forgotten how to lip-read. He nodded, and - after cramming the last of the bread in his

mouth - rose with me.

We rushed toward the exit while most eyes focused on the minstrel, their owners still

trying in vain to be heard over all the other patrons. Most, save for Oskar, who watched us as we

Callaghan 25

walked toward him and the exit. He held my sword in his hand. I accepted it with a nod and we

made our way past, out into the chill of the night.

At the stables we found that Gallen had also prepared for our departure, as he had Aecha

and Euron waiting for us, saddled and dressed for the ride.

“Thanks, Gallen,” I said as we approached, “guessing Mikkel tipped you off?”

“No, actually. Figured you wouldn’t be wanting to stick around. Mind, I wasn’t sure

which of these was your personal, so I dressed em both. Though I see my effort’s not gonna go

to waste.”

“Aye, cheers for that,” said Ronan.

I stared at the straw haired lad, “Aye, that, and the save with the lantern earlier. How did

you come up with that tale?”

Gallen grinned, “I did a bit of snooping after you fled to the river. Whoreson was a few

houses away swearing loud enough to give the Gods want to cover their ears. Saw his arm,” he

paused for half a second. “And knew you would need an out. Rushed here and smashed the

lantern.”

“You’re a clever lad,” I said, “much too clever to be stuck as a stable boy.”

He appeared taken aback for a second, though he soon flashed me an embarrassed smile,

“You praise me too much. I almost set the stables ablaze, mind; if I were so clever I would have

thought to snuff the lantern first.”

Ronan and I joined him in a chuckle. “Well, thank you.”

Ronan cut in, “if you two’re done we’d best get riding. I know a good spot to camp out,

but it’ll be a few hours.” He moved on to mount his horse.

Callaghan 26

I made to join him when Gallen grabbed my arm, “I know what you are,” he said in a

whisper.

I yanked my arm away, “That so? Then pray, divulge.”

He shook his head, “It’s ‘nae me place. If one were to look for answers though, one might

ride north and east, down the road for about two and a half days, then through the wilderness at

its end for another half. Alone.”

I studied the lad’s face. His eyes never flickered away from my own. “Aye? And what

would one be looking for if one were indeed to ride north and east?”

“One would know it when they saw it,” he said with a shrug. “But that’s enough idle talk,

your friend seems restless. G’night, Candas.”

I didn’t return the sentiment, but turned my back to the lad, threw on my cloak from the

saddlebags, and mounted.

We rode in silence out of the town of Yrenna, save for the creaking planks of the south

bridge. As Aecha stepped on the far bank, I looked back through the gap in the palisade to see

Gallen still watching us. He gave a quick two-fingered wave and stepped back into the stables.

It was only later that night, after I was sure Ronan was asleep, that I allowed my tears to

catch up with me.