“They’ll all be in the fields now, bringing in the first cutting of hay, but they’ll be coming back soon; it’s getting late. Pearl minds the pigs for the entire village, don’t you, Pearl?” The girl nodded fiercely, holding her stick with both hands and keeping a wary eye on Hadrian.
“What’s up there?” Royce asked. He had moved down off the green and was looking up the trail as it ran north.
Hadrian followed, leaving Millie with the bucket, her tail swishing vigilantly against a handful of determined flies. Moving past a stand of spruce, Hadrian could see a hill cleared of trees rising just a few hundred yards away. On its crest rested a stockade-style wall of hewn logs and, in the center, a large wooden house.
“That’s the margrave’s castle. The deacon Tomas has taken on the responsibility of steward until the king appoints a new lord. He’s very nice and I don’t think he’d mind you using the stables, considering there aren’t any other horses in the village. For now just tie them to the well, I guess, and we can go see my father.
“Pearl, watch their stuff, and keep the pigs away. If Tad, Hal, or Arvid comes back before I do, have them take the horses up to the castle and ask the deacon if they can stable them there, okay?”
The little girl nodded.
“Does she talk?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes, just not very often anymore. C’mon, I’ll take you to—to what used to be my home. Dad’s probably there. It’s not far and a pretty pleasant walk.” She began leading them east along a footpath that ran downhill behind the houses. As they circled around, Hadrian got a better look at the village. He could see more houses, all of them tiny things, most likely single rooms with lofts. There were other, smaller structures, a few crated feed bins built on stilts to keep clear of rodents and what looked to be a community outhouse; it too lacked a solid door.
“I’ll ask the Bothwicks to take you in while you’re here. I’m staying with them myself; they—” Thrace stopped. Her hands flew to her face as she sucked in a sudden breath and her lips started to quiver.
Beside the path, not far from the house with the swing, two wooden markers stood freshly driven into the earth. Carved into them were the names Maria and Jessie Caswell.
The Wood farm appeared down the footpath. Several acres lay cleared of trees, most at the bottom of a hill where lush wheat grew in perfectly straight rows. A low stone wall built from carefully stacked rocks ran the perimeter. It was a beautiful field of rich dark earth, well turned, well planted, and well drained.
The homestead itself stood on the rise overlooking the field. The house was a ruined shell, its roof gone, thatch scattered across the yard, blown by the wind. Only a few timbers remained—splintered poles jutting up like broken bones punching through skin. The lower half of the building and the chimney were both made of irregularly shaped fieldstone and remained mostly intact. Some stones lay in piles where they had slipped from their stacks, but the majority appeared eerily untouched.
Little things caught Hadrian’s attention. Mounted beneath one window hung a flowerbox with a scallop edge and the image of a deer carved into it. The front door, made of solid oak, did not reveal a single peg or visible joint. The stones that created the walls, in alternated colors of gray, rose, and tan, were each chipped to a fine flat profile. The curved walkway was bordered with bushes trimmed to resemble a hedge.
Theron Wood sat amidst the ruins of his home. The big farmer, with dark leathery skin, had a short mangle of forgotten gray hair that crowned a face cut by wind and sun. He looked like a part of the earth itself, a gnarled trunk of a great tree with a face like a weathered cliff. Holding a grass cutter between his legs, he rested on the remaining wall of his home, slowly dragging a sharpening stone along the length of the huge curved scythe blade. Back and forth the stone scraped while the man stared down at the green field below, an expression on his face Hadrian could describe only as one of contempt.
“Daddy! I’m back.” Thrace ran to the old farmer, hugging him around his neck. “I missed you.”
Theron endured the squeeze and glared at them. “Are these the ones, then?”
“Yes. This is Hadrian and Royce. They’ve come all the way from Colnora to help. They can get the weapon Esra told us about.”
“I have a weapon,” the farmer growled, and resumed sharpening his blade. The sound was cold and grating.
“This?” Thrace asked. “Your grass cutter? The margrave had a sword, a shield, and armor and he—”
“Not this, I have another weapon, much bigger, much sharper.”
Puzzled, she looked around. The old man offered no insight.
“I don’t need what lies in that tower to kill the beast.”