Chapter Thirty-Two
Mayor Jerrold stood at the farthest part of the shelter mine and surveyed his people. It seemed nearly all of Wareington had gathered. The glow of dim lanterns was just enough. Not that they were necessary. You live with each other for years with no outsiders, you have no need to see a face.
He decided to wait a bit, seeing that stragglers were still coming in.
This mine hadn’t been worked in his lifetime. But it was well-braced and sound. As were Wareington’s people.
Jerrold glanced at his mother, sitting on a wooden bench close by, bag of knitting at hand. She watched the crowd as well, gauging their temper, even as her hands reached into the bag. One thing the entire village knew full well, Mother Bercie’s hands were never idle. And woe betide ya if she thought yours were.
As he expected. she pulled out a dagger and a whetstone and started to sharpen the weapon. Jerrold felt some of the tension release from his shoulders at the comforting sound of blade on stone. One of his Da’s daggers; he recognized the handle. A wave of sadness swept Jerrold, catching him by surprise.
His mother caught his eye, her gaze steady yet full of worry. Those eyes had seen so much death and pain over the years. He glanced at his son, sitting next to her, and felt the same fear. Jerrold drew himself up and looked out over his people and did the only thing he could do with fear.
He faced it.
“Scouts out?” he asked. “Guards in place?”
His captains nodded.
Jerrold nodded. “For years, we’ve known this day would come,” he started, raising his voice. The people grew silent, giving him their attention.
“Those of Xy, Airion and Wyvern, have always tried to take what is ours. Our livelihoods, our resources, our lives, sometimes wiping out entire villages.” He paused, swallowing hard. “We will always remember.”
“We will always remember,” came the response from all.
“After we drove off the last Lord High Baron that dared try to rape us and our land, the Blood entered into its own strifes. While Blood warred with Blood, we of Wareington put the years to good use, preparing as our fathers warned us to.
“It seems that our time of peace is ending.
“It’s been days since the royal carriage rumbled past and they pounded their challenge to our gates,” he said. “I’ve sent messages to every village and town in the Hills, spreading the warning. Word has come back from all but the farthest reaches. We’re here to share what information we have and decide on a course of action.
“There’s no sign of warriors at our borders. All the villages there have promised to restore the signal fires, to warn of movement.”
That caused a stir.
“No movement?” Old Lewald asked sharply. “Not the main roads, nor the back trails?”
“Not a sign,” Jerrold confirmed.
“So they sent a new Lord High Baron to ‘subdue the rebels abhorrent to our realm’ without warriors?” Old Lewald snorted. “What happened to those that were with them at the gates?”
“They were seen galloping back down the road, wagons empty.” Rasfel spoke up. “Disappeared somewhere between here and the border. No word or sign since.”
“Magic,” came a dark mutter from the crowd. Unease swept through them all. Talk flared up and Jerrold let that go on for a bit. Best to let them get it out of their systems. The Lord of Light and the Lady of Laughter knew, it still wasn’t out of his. The not-knowing ate at his gut.
But his mother was still sharpening her dagger, and he had a job to do.
“Let’s focus,” he said at last. “I ask the Captains to report on preparations.”
One of the portly Vestor twins stood up. “The stores have been checked, plus all the caches in all the shelters. Enough dried food for a year for all. We cleaned out any that went bad. Water barrels are being filled and the wells in the caves are clean and pure.”
Another voice. “Haven’t moved the livestock yet, but ready at the first sign. We’ve sent out more hunters, for fresh meat to add to stores.”
“Weapons?” Jerrold asked.
“Every man and woman are equipped. We’ve fletchers working on more arrows and bolts.”
Mother Bercie spoke up. “We’ve stockpiled healing supplies, salves, medicines, and bandages. We’ve small kits for any warrior, make sure your people all have one.” She looked up and scanned the faces. “All those caring for the little ones know the hiding places.”
Jerrold nodded grimly. “No plan survives the enemy’s attack. But we are as prepared as we can be, it seems to me.” He turned to the leader of the scouts. “Rasfel? You’ve had eyes on the new Lord High Baron. What have our watchers seen?”
Rasfel had a sheepish look on his face; he ran his hand through his black hair before he spoke. “Well, in truth, our new Lord High Baron seems to be setting up residence in the gatehouse.”
Jerrold frowned. “How so?”
“In the time since they’ve been there,” Rasfel said, “we’ve seen the Lord give his son sword lessons in the courtyard. His wife sits in the sun, sometimes, nursing twins. They’ve a maidservant and a scribe to aid them.”
“Scribe?” Mother Bercie questioned.
“We’ve taken to calling him that since he carries a small book at times,” Rasfel shrugged. “All he can be, really, with that gimp.”
“Careful you don’t assume too much.” Mother Bercie said.
“Seen no others?” Jerrold asked.
“Nay,” Rasfel shook his head. “Cirda is one of the watchers,” he said, nodding at Jerrold’s eldest. “He can confirm.”
Jerrold turned to his son.
Cirda stood, tall and grown-up, and to Jerrold’s pride, squared his shoulders and spoke clearly. “The son is hunting pigeons. Both women forage in the old kitchen garden for what they can find, digging roots and taking dried leaves.”
“That garden always was protected from the deepest snows,” Mother Bercie mused. “But it’s not been tended in years. Left to run wild years ago. Can’t be much there in the dead of winter.”
“They all take turns trying to pull stones from the main well.”
That caused a grim murmur to run through the crowd. Dropping stones into that well had been a favorite practice of the Wyverns. Crida hesitated but Jerrold gestured for him to continue.
“They are also gathering what wood they can,” the young man said. “But I don’t think there’s enough in the ruins to keep them the rest of the winter.”
“Smart lad,” Rasfel said. “I think the same thing.”
“You have not been seen?” Jerrold asked.
“No, Father,” Cirda said, clearly indignant, rolling his eyes at the very idea.
Ah. There was his son. Jerrold suppressed his smile as he spoke. “Of course not.”
“Horses may have brought them,” Rasfel added, “but there’s none to be seen now, nor wagons neither.” He gave a sly grin. “The Lord High Baron knows enough sword work to teach the basics. The son needs more practice.”
“Should kill them now, before they learn more,” an old, querulous voice rose from the back, thumping his cane for emphasis. “Now, if I had my goat cart—”
Old Petro, without a doubt, ready with an opinion or complaint. Jerrold cut him off before the old man could get wound up. “I do not understand this,” Jerrold said to the crowd. “To make such an announcement, without force of arms, is either arrogant or stupid.”
“The Blood of Xy is not stupid,” Mother Bercie reminded him. “Do not let hate blind you. There have been good ones here, before your time, my son. Remember that,” she chided him. “Remember who you are named for.”
“Aye, Mother,” he nodded to her, then turned back to his people. “The Black Hills has suffered and will suffer again unless we make a stand when they come against us. For now, we wait. We watch.”
“And maybe prod them a bit?” Rasfel looked eager. “Maybe test them a bit, eh?”
“For now? No,” Jerrold shook his head. “We watch.”
“And seek answers,” Mother Bercie added.