Grimenna Read online

  The white spirit sunk its claws into the man’s back and, with a howl, threw him away as if he were no more than a ragged scarecrow. The spirit regained its feet and reached a claw to pull the arrow from its neck with a sickening wrench. It tossed the shaft to the ground as its black eyes landed on the shadowed man, and it started forward, claws curling. The man shakily raised himself on all fours. Paiva heard him gasp for winded breath. He scrambled away but the creature descended on him and Paiva cried out to him foolishly, alerting them both to her presence.

  The creature snapped his eyes up and perceived her in the shadows, then started towards her. Suddenly another man appeared. Smaller and not quite as wiry as the first, he leapt into the path of the white spirit, distracting it as the first figure crawled into the shelter of the trees. Then there was yet another man, and in the cold moonlight she realized he was garbed in thick furs, a bow raised before him, carefully aiming at the white creature that snarled and fought to rid itself of the second attacker. The spirit tossed its opponent aside yet again, its wisps of robes molting into feathers, changing and taking shape into arched wings.

  Another arrow flew, tearing feathers loose and sending them spinning into the air. As the spirit turned to Paiva again she bolted from her hiding spot, making for the meadow below on unsteady legs. The spirit launched itself after her on the span of its white wings. The man who had crawled away appeared out of nowhere and threw himself over her, tumbling them inches out of reach of the spirit’s claws. The beast narrowly missed them, thrown off course as arrow after arrow struck it, ripping through its wings and back. It crashed into the underbrush with a grating howl and thrashed violently to regain its feet. Finally it hissed wetly and raised its head to the sky, lurching upwards with a billow of air, searching for escape; then it careened overhead and soared away, resembling no more than an owl on its evening hunt.

  Paiva stared up at the empty sky with her heart in her throat, waiting for the creature to return, but it never did. The man who had shielded her gently released his hold and staggered to his feet with a pained grunt. She heard his footsteps move away, back to the others, and for a long moment she lay still, her mind reeling. She heard muffled voices and the snort of a horse. Delicately she sat up, still staring up to the sky in fear of a white shape returning.

  When she lowered her eyes to the forest there was a black figure standing in the shadows not far across from her. It was the bowman, and though his face was hidden beneath a cowl, she knew he was studying her. Not far behind him were the other two. One was crouched to the ground while the other leaned over him and touched at his shoulders.

  She rose shakily to her feet.

  “Who are you?” came the rumbling voice of the bowman.

  Her knees shook beneath her, her hands trembling at her sides. “Paiva Ibbie,” she said hoarsely, swallowing the residual acid taste of fear. “I’m from the farm down below. Who are you?”

  He was silent, studying her. He cocked his head back to the other two questioningly and she saw that he had a great beard beneath his cowl.

  “Go get the horse, Jorn,” the one leaning over the stooped man said wearily. The bowman moved away, padding silently into the trees.

  “What was that thing?” Paiva asked in shock.

  “A dark spirit,” the bearded man said. “We call him Varloga.”

  The man on the ground groaned. Paiva realized he was wounded.

  “I’m alright,” he grunted. “I can stand now. Go see to the girl.”

  The first man moved towards her, coming to stand barely an arm’s length away.

  “Who are you?” she asked again, feeling herself shift away from him. His face was obscured in shadow beneath his hood, yet she felt his eyes on her and it made her nervous. There was an intensity to him, an edge. In the dark she could not tell his age, could not discern his intent towards her.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked instead, avoiding her question. She took another step away from him, overwhelmed by his shadowy shape.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said defensively.

  The bowman returned with a small pack horse and realization dawned on her when she saw the bulging satchels and packs strapped to its back. She noted the distinctive clinking of wine bottles and jugs.

  “You were looting the altar,” she said accusingly, turning her eyes on the man before her. She felt him bristle. “I’m sorry,” she added, correcting her tone, realizing abruptly that they were in fact her saviors. “It is yours. Take what you need.”

  “Come along, we’ll see you home,” the man said, brushing roughly passed her. Bewildered, she followed after as the others pressed in behind her.

  They followed the stone fence down through the pasture to the back of the barn where a dim light glowed from within. As they drew close she heard the bay of her father’s dog, and a second later its shadowy shape leapt from the barn door, followed by the silhouette of her father clutching a lamp and his shepherd’s staff. He stared blindly out into the night as the dog bounded towards them.

  The three men stopped in their tracks but Paiva broke away and ran as swiftly as she could towards her father’s tense shape. As he saw her coming he let out a curse. He closed the ground between them and threw his arms around her as she thudded into his chest. She wept into the warmth of his deep chest, soaking his shirt with hot tears.

  “What is the matter?” Viviel croaked, his voice shaking as she trembled in his arms. “What has happened?” The dog snarled and howled in the shadows and Viviel raised the lantern higher. “Who is there? What sort of trick is this?”

  “There are three men back there,” Paiva rambled. “They saw me safely home from the woods. I saw a most terrible creature, a white monster, half-man and half-owl.”

  “We’ll find out in the morning who it is that put up this wretched trick. Go on in now and see your mother.”

  “No, he was real. They said it was Varloga.”

  Her father froze, his body going rigid. His eyes glowed with golden lantern light as they roved across her face with urgency. He blinked, then he pushed her behind him and strode forwards into the night towards the barking dog.

  “Who goes there?” he called. As the glow of the lamp crept towards the three figures they shied back and her father clutched his staff all the firmer. “I said who goes there?” he called again, coming to a stop and planting his feet firmly in the ground. The dog raced back to him and stood between his master and the strangers, baring his fangs defensively. “If you are good souls and mean us no harm you are welcome here. Come forward, let me see you. It is unnerving talking to shadows.”

  The man who had led them down from the woods took a hesitant step forward into the ring of light. He was a young man, tall, with a dirty mess of black hair hanging about his hooded face. He stood stooped beneath his tattered cloak and drew his eyes up to Viviel’s.

  “We mean no harm,” he said solemnly.

  Her father tucked his staff beneath his arm and boldly strode up to the man and extended his hand in greeting. The stranger dropped his eyes to it and hesitated. Slowly, he extended his own hand. Viviel shook it, and then didn’t let it go. He peered closely into the man’s face.

  “Ah,” he said. He took the man’s hand and turned it over to reveal his palm to the lantern light where he found a brand of riddled, burnt skin in the meat of the thumb.

  “So,” Viviel said. “You are a Wilderman.”

  Chapter 3

  Wildermen were convicted criminals who had chosen to die in the woods instead of rotting in a prison or having their necks stretched in the gallows. They were branded, which made shaking hands, exchanging money, or even waving hello impossible and dangerous for them to do if they were ever to venture into the lowlands. They were called Wildermen because they were thrown into the Wilderlands beyond the great Panderbank River that separated the highlands from the lowlands of Grimenna. The Wilder
lands are dangerous, consisting of untamed, undefiled forest. The advantage of choosing to die in the woods is that a man could have a chance at earning a pardon — a pardon that could be earned by severing the head of a creature like Varloga and bringing it back to the Lord Pratermora who ruled the land. The Lord was said to highly prize these heads; he mounted them in his trophy room at the top of his keep.

  Paiva remembered well the day the Warden of Birchloam had caught a Wilderman trespassing. He had been caught stealing eggs, and to look at him you’d have seen why, for he was no more than skin and bones beneath layers of rotting animal hides and dirt. The rangers tied him in the village square while the Warden found his ledger and read it aloud for all to hear. Cowardice had been his crime, and for cowardice they had burned his hand and thrown him into the Wilderlands. Sometimes outcasts came back, searching for food or loved ones. If they were not drowned by the River they were caught by the rangers, as this man was, for it was his hunger that made him desperate. He simply hung his head in shame when caught and did not even try to avoid the stones the mob began to throw at him. It didn’t take more than a few glancing blows — he was dead before the Warden had time to finish reading his ledger.

  — «» —

  Viviel boldly faced the three strangers, seemingly unalarmed. His voice when he spoke to them was even and strong, neither threatening nor friendly. The black-haired stranger took his hand away and stepped back towards the others. Paiva felt her nerves snapping as she watched her father for a reaction.

  “I must give thanks then,” Viviel said, “to the great forest for sending you our way this night. I cannot fault you for trespassing in the lowlands if it saved my daughter’s soul. You must tell me what came to pass.”

  “There is a dark spirit loose in the lowlands tonight,” the bowman named Jorn said. “Best to tell the Warden and have him send his rangers to guard your house tonight. We must be going.” With that he made to turn the horse back up to the woods, but Viviel’s firm voice spoke out.

  “There are two of you who are hurt,” he said, for he had noticed the stoop in the black-haired stranger, and the third man that held his arm close to his chest.

  They said nothing and moved on.

  “Wait,” Viviel called after them. They did not stop, treading onwards silently towards the trees. Her father cast Paiva a backwards glance and then trotted off after them.

  Paiva followed, close on his heels, the dog darting ahead of them. She did not know why her father would not just let them leave. She wanted more than anything to be back in their house with every door and window barred.

  “Wait, my good men, please. I must talk with you,” Viviel said. “Please, tell me what came to pass.”

  The bowman slowed, his wide shoulders tense with unease. He turned back and looked at Viviel, then lifted his head to look beyond at Paiva.

  “Your daughter, good sir, should not be out alone in the woods,” he said.

  “No,” Viviel said shakily. “Please explain to me what has come to pass. Tell me your names, so I may pray for you and give you thanks.”

  Paiva felt the return of heat to her cheeks and looked down at her feet. The bowman’s voice grew deep and threatening.

  “Tell you our names? So you may go and tell the Warden? If he marks my ledger because of you, be sure that I will be back for you.”

  Viviel shook his head vehemently. “I certainly shall not. If he’d done his job half-right he would have found you lot in the first place. I have no reason to help Warden Lier catch rogue Wildermen.”

  The bowman studied him in silence.

  “Come, out of the dark,” Viviel said sincerely.

  “It’s not a light punishment, getting caught giving sanctuary to Wildermen,” the younger man said. “You could lose your home, your status. You could even be sent to the woods yourself.”

  Viviel gently reached out and took hold of the packhorse’s bridle. Then, without a word he urged it alongside him, down to the barn.

  “What are you doing?” the bowman growled. “Are you mad?”

  “He’s kind,” said the black-haired one.

  “Come along, there’s no argument here. The entire village is drunk and oblivious. Come, out of the dark of the night. One old man and a dog won’t keep a dark spirit at bay, but if I have you three by my fire tonight I’ll sleep soundly. I am sure you would all be glad for some hot food and sweet cider.”

  “It would be wiser to fetch the Warden,” said Jorn.

  “I have little faith in our Warden.”

  Viviel drew the horse into the barn as Kess’ worried voice rang out from the back of the house, calling for Viviel and asking what the dog had been barking at. Viviel turned to Paiva and ordered her up to the house.

  She hesitated, nervous of leaving her father alone in the barn with three strangers, and even more anxious to face her mother.

  “Tell your mother to be calm. Go on,” Viviel said firmly.

  Paiva turned and ran through the dark yard up to the house.

  “By my soul, Paiva, did Viviel fetch you without telling me? What has happened?” Kess asked her at once. Then she saw the look on Paiva’s face and the stains of tears on her cheeks, and an icy horror washed over her face.

  “What is the matter? Where is your mask? Where is your Father?” she cried, hurrying Paiva into the house.

  “Father has brought Wildermen back from the woods… They are hurt.” Paiva couldn’t find the right word to describe the creature she had seen. The very thought of it still left her trembling and weak.

  Her mother didn’t need to ask any more questions to realize that something was terribly wrong. She simply clasped her hand to Paiva’s face and kissed the tears from her cheeks. “Mummers-eve,” Kess complained. “Best we turn out the candles in the window so nobody visits.”

  “We need to lock the doors and windows,” Paiva said. She moved to the front door where she latched it firmly. Kess watched her with pained wide eyes, then she nodded silently and they both went about the house, securing it and closing the curtains over their windows.

  By the time they were done Viviel had entered the back door, followed by the three dirty, unkempt men. Paiva looked to her mother worriedly, who touched her forehead in the familiar gesture of warding off bad luck.

  “It is Mummers-eve. This must still be a trick,” Jorn muttered.

  “No more tricks tonight,” Viviel promised.

  “I haven’t been in a real house in so long,” Jorn said, stunned, staring about. “A home. A real home.”

  “How long has it been since you lost yours?” Viviel asked.

  “Four winters. I had a small farm, not as fine as yours, but it was mine and it was my home, filled with fleas and children. I’ll get back there one day, I hope.”

  “Don’t ever stop hoping, good man. You can lose your happiness and you can lose your love and your courage, but a man must never lose hope.” Viviel strode into the house and dragged a bench towards the fire, inviting them to warm themselves.

  “This is my wife Kess Ibbie,” Viviel said, “and you’ve already met my whimsical daughter Paiva, and the dog, Elki.” Kess nodded curtly to the strangers as they took their seats before the fire, shedding dirt and leaves on her freshly swept floor. Her nerves seemed to snap then.

  “Will you please tell me what has happened?” she asked Viviel. “Why are there three Wildermen sitting in my house?”

  Everyone turned to look at her. Even Viviel had a touch of worry in his eyes.

  “It was my fault,” Paiva said. She faced her mother. “I broke my promise to you.”

  She recounted the whole story to her wide-eyed mother. When she was done a long silence stretched through the room. Kess slowly drew her eyes from Paiva to the three men.

  “Varloga?” she breathed, and again she touched her forehead. “By my soul, you three are l
ucky to still be breathing. Come then, you are very welcome here. Let me warm you some cider.”

  — «» —

  Paiva had thrown away her ripped cloak and discarded what was left of her trampled costume, replacing it with a warm woolen shawl. She sat on the stairs as she descended from the loft, and quietly watched and listened to the Wildermen from there. She took the opportunity to study them, and wonder at them. The one with the sore arm had a great beard that rivaled her father’s, though it was streaked with gray below his chin and tangled with burrs. He looked to also be about her father’s age, with sunken gray eyes, gaunt cheeks, and deep lines in his forehead creased with dirt. He wore animal skins beneath a tattered leather vest and an oilskin cloak, and his boots were worn through at the toes and patched with hide.

  The bowman, Jorn, was the biggest of the three, with a shorter beard and a balding head greased over with straggly wisps of hair. His eyes were as dark and brown as the dirt smeared on his face and hands. His britches were thin and worn through at the knees and thighs, patched again with scraps of different cloth. He looked fearsome in his tattered furs and cloak, more of a bear than a man, but she sensed there was a softness in him. About his eyes were the same deep lines like her father’s—lines that had been made from years of smiling and laughing.

  The youngest one, who looked a few years older than Ramsi, had hair as black as soot, as if a crow had made a nest of its own feathers atop his head and forgotten it there. He had broad shoulders, though the rest of his frame was narrow and sinewy, like a scarecrow that needed a few good meals. He had a nose that had suffered a break at one time and a grim mouth. He was the blackest and the dirtiest of the three, his boots caked in mud, his crow’s nest of hair knotted with neglect.

  They all had deep rings beneath their eyes and smelled of male sweat, leather, horse, woodsmoke and mossy earth. Her imagination spun with scenarios for how each one had gotten their brand, but she did not dare ask aloud. They seemed to be trustworthy-enough men—in her father’s eyes, at least, if he was willing to open his door to these strangers. Yet there was something dangerous about them. There was a tension in their bodies, like a coil of uneasy muscle ready to spring. It was as if they were wolves sneaking around a trapped chicken coop.