It was late afternoon when Brown John’s colorful wagon burst out of the forest into the clearing outside Weaver. His team, frothing and steaming, pulled up short of a cluster of empty, parked wagons as he reined up hard. A crowd of Grillards tumbled out and hurried through the wagons into the village, where the wailing of the grief stricken mixed with music and dancing. Brown John, head erect, remained in the driver’s box.
The wagons wore the marks, colors and totems of local forest tribes, and their owners crowded the terraces of Weaver. There were left-handed Wowells in furs, lean, round-faced Checkets, plain-looking Barhacha woodsmen, and Kaven money changers from Coin in three-belted robes. There were even savage Kraniks and Dowats, who had come all the way from the high forest.
The southern edge of the village still smouldered amid large puddles of spilled dye. At Three Bridge Crossing a group of Cytherians were hurriedly raising a finished gate to block the western bridge. Other villagers labored with shovels and picks, demolishing the other two bridges.
Brown John chuckled wisely and turned as Bone and Dirken came running through the wagons to him wearing proud smiles.
“We saw it all,” Bone said triumphantly. “And up close.”
“Splendid,” said Brown John, “I want to hear every detail, but first, tell me… did the Dark One play a part?”
“A part!” Bone blurted. “He was the whole bloody thing.”
Dirken indicated Weaver with the back of his head. “There are thirty-nine dead Skull soldiers in there, three temple guards and,” he hesitated for effect, “two commanders. Champions. And all dead. He drowned and scalded most of them by pushing over dye vats, the rest was hand work.”
“He tore off one of their arms,” Bone added with a grand gesture. “Ripped it right out of the shoulder.”
Brown John grinned. “Your sense of the dramatic is commendable, Bone, but when telling a tale, do not stretch the truth beyond its endurance. You’ll lose your audience.”
“It’s absolutely true, it is!” protested Bone.
Dirken nodded. “The commanders were the strongest bastards I’ve ever seen! But Gath was stronger. You couldn’t have staged a better show yourself.” Then with a whisper resonant with impending horror, he asked, “Want to see it?”
“Yes, I would.” Brown John laughed and dropped lightly out of the wagon.
The brothers led their father into the forest to a stand of birch trees surrounded by alder shrubs. They moved in among the bushes to a pile of fresh cut brush from which Bone removed a large branch. On the ground under it was a folded blanket of green moss. Dirken unfolded the moss, and showed its contents to his father. A very large left arm.
“My, my,” whispered Brown John truly impressed.
Bone pushed the rest of the brush aside as Dirken went on.
“The Cytherians laid claim to all the Kitzakks killed inside their village, but before they got around to it we had already hauled off the best of the bunch. If things keep going like this, we’ll be the richest men in the forest.”
Dirken helped Bone pull off the last of the brush to reveal the dead bodies of three men. They were short and thin, shrouded in black robes.
“Guards of the Temple of Dreams!” Brown John’s smile twisted strangely. “Now that is an intriguing sight.”
“We’ve got better,” Dirken said. “One of their commanders.” He removed another shrub, revealing a tall massive man glittering in a suit of chain mail. He lay facedown beside a huge sword and axe. A bloody hole at his shoulder and his other wounds were packed with moss.
The old stage master chuckled, “By Kram and Bled! This will send a message to the very corners of their empire!”
“And we’ve got a wagon load of weapons,” Bone added.
“Splendid! Absolutely splendid.” The old man gingerly lifted the empty, scalloped sleeve of the chain mail suit. Its arm had indeed been pulled out.
“Amazing,” he said. “Truly amazing. And fortuitous. Tonight, around the fires, and in the coming days, many will speak of the events of this day, and you and I will play principal roles in their tales. Count on it! We placed the central player on the stage.” His arm swept elaborately over their grim trophies. “It is we, the Grillards, the ridiculed and outlawed, who now stir the pot!”
He turned intently to his sons. “Now tell me, slowly and accurately, each detail. It is critical that I know everything. How did you convince Gath to come to Weaver? How did you know the Kitzakks would strike here?”
Bone and Dirken shared a sheepish glance, then Dirken said flatly, “We didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Didn’t know when the Kitzakks would strike.”
“Then how did you get him to come here?”
Dirken hesitated. His face reddened, then he grinned. “We didn’t. The Lakehair girl brought him.”
“That’s right,” Bone added quickly. “He followed her here, all the way from Calling Rock.”
Brown John clapped his bony hands excitedly, then beckoned with long fingers to his sons. “Of course! Of course! She gave him the message. So what did he.say to her?”
Bone and Dirken shrugged. Then Dirken whispered, “We don’t know. We didn’t talk to either of them.”
Brown John’s wrinkled face surrendered to gravity with alarming speed.
“We’re sorry,” Bone blurted. “But we never got the chance. We waited for her on Summer Trail just like you said, but she just marched by us. Gath and that wolf of his were following her, so we hid ’til he went by. We followed them, you know, real careful like, and they came all the way here. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, came the bloody Kitzakks. You should have seen the people run and scream!”
“Enough!” Brown John’s arm cut the air like a sword. He closed his eyes with deliberation. When he opened them they were on Dirken and his voice was modulated.
“What precisely are you telling me? Why did Gath of Baal choose to defend this village?”
“He didn’t, not really,” Bone said, then Dirken explained.
“The Kitzakks tried to carry off the Lakehair girl in a caged wagon, and he killed a good half of ’em to get her out. Then after it seemed to be all over, he fought the two commanders alone. In the Wagon Yard. Nobody knows why exactly. It was weird. Sort of like a couple of kids going out behind a barn to see who’s toughest, but without the laughs.”
“I dare say,” muttered Brown John with a mocking laugh. “So, the pot surely does bubble, but we, just as surely, do not stir it… or even know what is in it.” He chuckled ironically, looking from Bone to Dirken. “I presume, then, that the tribes have not anointed the Dark One with flowers and offered him their jewels and their daughters?”
His sons shifted uneasily, then Dirken said, “Nobody knows where he is.”
“Or the Lakehair girl either,” said Bone. “She went after him. In a wagon. He was bleeding bad.”
Brown John’s mouth sagged grimly. “He’s dying?”
“Or dead,” Dirken said. “I say sell off the armor and weapons, then pack up the village and go.”
The old man considered this, looking at the ground, then replied with surprising assurance, “No. Not until we know.”
“Know what?”
“If Gath of Baal is alive. It is a frail hope, but Robin Lakehair has the gift of healing. And perhaps, if she finds him…” He raised his eyebrows in expectation, then turned away. More for his own ears than theirs, and with a ring of amused fatalism, he added, “It always comes to this and no doubt always will. Our hopes, our joys and our dreams, everything that a man holds as necessary and pleasurable in his life, eventually depends on a woman.”
He shook his ragged head, sat down on a stump and laughed outrageously. His sons watched him stupefied. Finally, he addressed them mockingly. “It appears that the fortunes of we three brave and cunning heroes, and the future of our tribe lies in the small hands of a mere girl.”
“You picked her!” They both shouted the accusation.
“Indeed I did,” said Brown John, then he said it again.