The horizon burned as the sun got through with its daily
dying. Haemic skulked in the hedge outside his house, in a shallow hole he had
dug for precisely that moment. He told them what he wanted to do, but they had
forbidden it. She would have laughed at them and gone anyway. Haemic was not
that brave. But clever, he was clever. And quiet.
He watched as his mother ushered his little brother and two
sisters inside for their supper. His father would already be at table, getting
his fill of bread and stew. His father, the farrier, would have taken his seat
still smelling of the stables. His mother would no doubt have chided him “Oh
father, would that I’d known ye’d smell so bad as I married ye.” And she’d tut
and shake her head and feed him anyway. The little ones would hop into their
own seats and take to the meal like starving weasels. Always hungry, they were.
“Haemic?!” his mother called from the door of the house; a
two-storey square of wattle and daub capped with a steep roof of thatch. The
farrier’s home had been built on the edge of Three Corners, its foundations
abutting a narrow stream that wound through the fields to the north. It was
nestled in a small copse of poplars. The front yard was thick, green grass
freckled with wildflowers. A young vine of honeysuckle crawled up a lattice his
mother had built around the mortared chimney. “Where is that devil boy?” mother
exclaimed before being called back inside by one of the girls. Haemic counted
to a hundred before slinking out from under the hedge. He stayed low and ran
down the street toward the town stables.
Three Corners was a town, little more than a village,
really, of simple, square homes sprinkled over the rolling fields on the
western border of Wilder’s Gorge. There was little logic to how the streets
were arrayed, and there was space between each building such that there were no
alleys. The stables were not far from Haemic’s house, not even half a mile. He
kept to the shadows where he could, and kept his hood up. Any townsfolk who
recognized him might drag him home to his mother. He would never hear the end
of that. He had seen fourteen summers, had kissed his first girl not but a week
ago. That had scared him more than this, the stakes being almost equal in his
young mind. And two weeks before that, the word of his sister had arrived.
They had all been saddened, his father perhaps most, though
his mother and the little ones had shown it more. His father had accepted the
news, stern of face though his eyes were glass. Haemic had cried as the rest of
them, but with the sadness had come pride. His sister had died a hero, had
served their lord bravely, and with honor. Had she been born blooded she may
have been a knight.
Haemic reached the stables, passing a pair of hands as they left
for the evening. They did not even spare him a glance. He was just another stable
boy. He snuck around to the back of the long, cross-shaped building and scaled
the wall. It was built of logs, the cracks between them stuffed with moss and
mud. There were plenty of hand-holds, and he was a good climber. It helped that
he’d made the climb every day for the past fortnight. In a small loft above the
stable floor, amid square bales and discarded old tack and harness, he
collected his things.
Two weeks he had been collecting the supplies for his
journey. Hard tack and sausage, a heavy blanket and a folded sheet of canvas,
some flint and a beat up old pot. A knife and a hatchet, and a hoof-knife just
in case. A half-bag of apples, and his best set of clothes for when he got
where he was going. A small box of tinder in case he found no dry wood for
kindling. Autumn in Wilder’s Gorge was a time for rain, after all. All packed
in a pair of saddlebags paired with a worn old halter and saddle. He had only
found them a few days before; a saddle no one would miss that was still in good
enough shape to bear him half the breadth of the barony. It had been buried up there
under piles of old detritus. The metal was tarnished and pitted, and the straps
were nigh on fraying, but he expected it would do. When he was done collecting
his things. He threw the bags and saddle over his shoulder and descended a
ladder to the stable floor. The smell of horse was mild, as the stables had
only just been cleaned, and there were fresh rushes of hay on the floor. He
kept low, more out of nerves now than anything, and went to find the horse.
The horse was one thing he knew would be missed, but it was
the one thing perhaps he needed the most and he had the right one all picked
out. She was a roan mare, a palfrey who belonged to the town magistrate, and
was the finest riding horse in Three Corners by a very wide margin. Haemic had
stolen moments here and there, while working with his father, to feed her
apples so she would be accustomed to him when the time came. She was there,
snorting and snuffing in her stall when he arrived. He set the saddle and bags
on the ground outside and pulled an apple from the sack within to offer her.
She munched on it happily and hardly blinked as he pulled the halter over her
face and ears. He hoped the magistrate would forgive him. He would do all he
could to see her returned when his journey was done.
He looked back on the fire-lights of Three-corners that
glowed in the deepening dark as the roan clopped down the East Road to
Fulcairn. His chest panged as he thought of the worry he would cause his
mother, of his brother having no one to help him fish in the stream the next
day. Of his father left to find another helper, of his sisters having no one to
bear them on his shoulders so they could pretend at being giants. But, he had
always worshipped Magda, and if she could no longer serve young Lord Fulcairn,
then it fell to him to serve in her place. He would learn to fight and join the guard, and if he was strong and lucky enough he could be one of the baron’s
armsmen. Perhaps, however unlikely, someday a knight. He turned back to
face the road, and gave the mare his heels, grinning despite himself as she
surged forward. The wind whipped his hair, the world stretched before him, his
eyes on his prey.
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