Faormuc by J.B. Jones (ebook reader web .txt) 📖

and tumble environment enchanted him.  Not many had yet come to scratch and carve out their lot in this rugged land.  It was a vast, forested place alien to anything the boy had ever known.

 

The few other children near Marku's age were not interested in his friendship, seeing instead a privileged brat to be tormented. Left to his own devices, Marku chose the company of the herdsmen employed by his father. 

 

His first foray into the woods, riding herd on one of the family groups taken to their preferred forage, marked the beginning of a respectful affair.  From that point on, he explored and studied the forests of his new home with every moment he could spare.  It was during one of these explorations that he met a hunter named Colryn.

 

Though older, Colryn treated Marku as well as one could expect.  It was he that began to teach Marku the lore of the woodlands that went beyond the knowledge of the cowherds.  In the fullness of time, it was Colryn that introduced him to the Lore Master that would set Marku's path in stone.

 

Marku's attention was captured by the dwindling noise of the men he followed.  There were less than two hours or so remaining before sunset.  The woodsman climbed from his horse, fastened the reins to the saddle's pommel and spoke to it,  "Wait, horse."   Marku knew that the animal, unless threatened by some predator, would be there when he returned.  He removed the axe slung over his back, secured it to the gear his horse carried and, taking his crossbow, slipped away.  He skirted the woods, parallel to the course the party had taken.

 

Ah, Your Highness, what are you and the - what was it Jon called them? Oh, yes - mongrels up to now?  He recalled Colryn's instructions: "If they tarry or attempt to return, kill one."

 

In only the time a meal taken at leisure would expend, Marku heard the men once more.  He drifted into the trees and hesitated for a few moments, taking stock of his surroundings.  The woodsman closed the distance with care.  He was not trying to be silent, nothing that moved in the forest was.  He crept toward the men with soft steps that had no pattern, stirring a few leaves now and then, crushing a twig or two, stepping over trees, downed by age or storm, rather than atop them and risking a tumble.  The Lore Adept's passage disturbed nothing.  Squirrels gamboled in the boughs above him, insects trilled their mating calls, birds perched in peace, showing no alarm of the predator that passed amongst them.

 

When the smell of woodsmoke came to him, Marku paused to swivel in place.  He used his nose to lead him until the sounds of the Faustians came to him clearly.   Near the edge of the woods now, he sank into the underbrush and made his approach. 

 

 Marku slithered a meandering path.  Nature did not offer up many straight lines and few things were more visible to a watcher than the line of flattened grasses that trailed behind a creeping novice.  He used the same stop-and-go pattern he had used in the forest, and for the same reason.  In short order, Marku was able to part the foliage that concealed him and see the princeling's group.

 

*****

His-Royal-Highness-to-Be sat and grimaced as the others made camp. 

 

"Corrigan! A squab would not cook through over a fire such as that." 

 

Italo threw a clod of dirt at the man with the perforated foot who then limped off to locate more fuel for the fire. He needed no more to tend his own blazing thoughts -Then get off your Royal arse and build it up your own Royal self, you Royal jackass. Corrigan was careful to let no trace of his displeasure show on his face or in his demeanor.

 

Corrigan looked over when Carvhal pitched a brief whistle at the man, no more than the peep of one of the squabs that so concerned the Crown Prince. He put down a load of wood he had gathered from the forest's edge.

 

Carvhal was unaware that he had walked to within several paces of the bearded man with the crossbow that he had last seen at that accursed farm. He winked at Corrigan who nodded his thanks, trudging back to the fire with enough fuel to cook the damned Prince, let alone a bird. Carvhal ranged around their camp looking for pests, or worse, that might interrupt the Prince's rest.  He carried their only weapon. 

 

Across the site from Prince Italo, the remaining man sorted through their belongings, setting what food they had and the various utensils they would need aside. He hummed a ditty and there was a pleasant smile on his face.  His eyes were a bit vacant. He looked to the young Royal and noticed Italo fidgeting and picking at his clothing. The man got up and carried one of the blanket rolls to Italo, laying it out beside him.

 

"Would Sire wish to wear clean garments, Sire?" His eagerness to please showed and the man rocked from foot to foot as he awaited a response.

 

 Italo began to spit what Sire would wish but drew those scathing words back when he saw the hurt bloom on Ashby's face at his tone. The man was a dolt, and his condition repulsed Italo, but he was a useful and devoted servant. 

 

"Yes, Ashby. Sire wishes that." Italo had learned the hard way that to change many of Ashby's words to him confused the man. His response to not understanding the Prince, and many other things, was to throw a tantrum during which he would beat himself and wail, "Ash is idjit! Ash, the dolt! Ashby is a dummy!" and every other deprecation anyone had ever thrown at him.

 

The smile blossomed again and the man scurried to carry out Sire's bidding. He returned with underthings, a  tunic and some trousers, far less colorful, and balancing a bowl of water with a washcloth swimming in it.

 

Ashby bent to give the items to Italo, nearly dumping the water into the Prince's lap. The bite of anger was on Italo's face but the words were yet to come when Ashby's eyes got round as saucers. He retreated to where he had been sorting supplies. The Prince's servant sat with his back to Italo and the thumps of blows could be heard. "Ash, you dolt!  Ash the idjit, good for naught idjit, Ashby!"

 

Corrigan looked up from where he was spittings strips of salted bacon onto green branches that would not burn through before the meal was cooked. He glanced at the Prince who was rolling his eyes at the spectacle, noting what the Royal Cur did not.  Six or eight paces behind the Prince stood Carvhal.  He held the knife like a dagger and stared holes into the Prince's back. Disgust and rage boiled, steaming off the only armed man in the group. 

 

In an instant, as though a blanket had dropped over them, every sound fell away.   Ashby ceased his self-abuse. Crickets held their chirps, no wind blew to rattle branches or course its sighs through the grasses and plants, the sizzle of grease that fell from the cooking bacon into the fire stopped.  For long moments the world held its breath. 

 

"Ashby?  Ash?"  Corrigan called to him in the silence.  When he had his attention, he asked, "Would you like tea?"  The other man nodded, his round eyes swimming in unshed tears.  "I could make some if I had three - he showed the man three fingers - flat rocks to put in the coals."  Ashby held up three fingers.  Corrigan nodded.

 

The smile came back and he said, "Ash can find rocks.  Ashby will, Gorgon."  He could not pronounce Corrigan's name, had never been able to.  He held up three fingers and set off in search of flat rocks.

 

Marku began his retreat.

 

*****

He was not worried about the other three men.  Marku knew that, if necessary, he could elude them.  The impaired man, Ashby, was a different kettle of fish.  In his enthusiasm to find the rocks Corrigan had asked for, he might stumble by chance onto Marku.  There was no reason to risk that.  The emissaries were going nowhere tonight, except to sleep.

 

He pulled back with as much caution as he used in the stalk.  Not a great deal of time remained before sunset and the nocturnal predators of Selena would soon stir.  When he was far enough away that the men would not hear him, he sped up and used less care.  The noise he made would intimidate some of the forest's hungry but less brazen denizens, chasing them away.  When Marku found the horse where he left it, he stowed the crossbow, climbed into the saddle and began the search for a suitable spot for his own camp.

 

*****

 He found it in a copse of trees that had spread out of the forest and grown into the clearer fields.  It was close enough to the path taken that none of the princeling's men would slip by his notice if they reversed their course.  To ensure that, Marku took a few small dried and hollow gourds from his gear along with a spool of dark sewing thread.  He put a few pebbles into each and suspended them across the trail with the thread.  He led his animal to forage, tethered it there and ate from a pouch of trail rations. Marku would wait to start his own small cookfire, in a depression that restricted its illumination, until later.   

 

He walked among the closest trees and reached up to pluck a bit of chewsome to spice the bland mix.  From the far side of the tree a matter-of-fact female voice said, "Remember this, man:  Not all."

 

When she came around into his view, he marvelled at how a being as miniscule as she could project a voice that commanding.  Marku grinned, winked, and held up the single sprig he had taken.  The woodsman inspected the tiny person before him.  She was clad in what could have been spider's silk, colored not forest hues but in shades and degrees of light.  These tones enabled her slight-statured kind to blend in a remarkable way into the diffuse highlights and somber shadows of the woodlands.  Dressed as this and moving with abundant caution, they were nigh invisible at daybreak and dusk, as he could now attest.  Many a night had he and other men of the forests spoken of the 'edgers'. They were an unknown quantity and woodsmen spoke of them with respect.

 

  Marku, in all his time and attention given to the mastery of woodlore, had never seen one of these beings in detail, never for longer than the heartbeat of a hummer bird had he seen them at all.

 

She climbed the tree with sure and liquid motions that appeared effortless, until they were face to face. 

 

"You will call me Spark, man.   How shall I address you?" 

 

Marku was surprised to sense that she harbored animosity for his kind - hells, perhaps 'tis me.  The tone and quality of her clipped speech left no doubt.  There was an unsubtle and confident dismissiveness.  Spark was unimpressed.

 

The sun arced toward its slumber and she all but disappeared. Her gossamer attire became translucent as a creeping band of sunlight that illuminated more of the trunk absorbed her.  She waited, still and ethereal.

 

"This is extraordinary, Spark.  I am pleased," he said, sounding like Jonsai at the beginning of one of his lecturing pronouncements. 

 

She interrupted him with a brusque, "Did you hear my question?  Man, you are not deaf?" 

 

Marku was thankful for the beard which hid cheeks rouged with embarrassment.

 

"I am to be called Vul."  The woodsman delivered this with a direct and assertive tone, a bit peeved with the tiny dominatrix. He had thought the similarity of 'Marku and Spark' uncomfortable, his full family name unwieldy and out of the question. The comfortable truncation of that into 'Vul' worked, or so he believed at the time. 

 

His eyes