4. Leoric
Chapter 4
Leoric
S unlight pierced the gaps in the shutters. Sunlight pierced my eyelids.
I cursed as I ran my fingers through my hair. Some day I would learn how to properly board up that bloody window. I didn’t choose for my cottage to face the rising sun. Then again, I didn’t choose the cottage, either. Not this occupation, not this life. I sat up in bed and reminded myself to be grateful. Barrowdeep was better. This was better.
Only the slightest throb in my head. A vast improvement. I smacked my lips, frowning at the dryness of my throat, and then at the empty cup on my nightstand. I needed a drink. Water. There was a time when I drank far more ale and wine by night. I thought it would help me blot out the nightmares. But the awful dreams had subsided since my time away from the fighting. There was a little less of the darkness. That alone was reason enough to be grateful.
“I am thankful for this life,” I mumbled to myself hoarsely. “But I’ll be more thankful after a drink of water.”
How many mugs of ale did I have the night before? My mouth had never felt so parched. And I’d forgotten to draw water to drink, too. Throwing my sheets aside, I clambered out of bed and pulled on the first pair of trousers I could find with my fingers. I staggered for the door.
I hadn’t meant to linger at the Ugly Mug for quite that long, but I had to watch the fae man. In case he made any sudden moves, you see. In case he had plans to betray the people of Barrowdeep. I’d only stayed to watch him for the town’s safety and peace of mind.
Wooden bucket in hand, I stumbled out of the front door of my cottage, heading straight for the nearest well. Fresh water to drink, with which to bathe myself? These were luxuries. All this ready access to food, shelter, and clean water? I thought back to when my mind had been set on wandering the countryside instead of settling somewhere safe.
This was better. Barrowdeep was better, and I wasn’t about to let anything — or anyone — upturn the much-needed harmony I’d finally found. Jeromah, Father Whiston, even old Redginald and his nitwit son at the town guard? As close to family as I was going to get. I was glad to protect them all, whether the threats came from within the walls of Barrowdeep, or without.
I drew up a fresh bucket of water, cupping crystal-clear handfuls, lapping thirstily like a dog. I washed my eyes and face, cleaned my teeth, and ran my fingers through my hair. Even in a place like this, where no one truly cared how I looked for as long as I did my job, I always felt an instinctive need to make myself more presentable.
How long had it been since I’d shaved? Droplets of water trickled down the ends of my hair, sticking against my neck. Too long and I might start frightening the smaller children. How long since I’d trimmed my hair? If only I could frighten the ghouls as well.
Or the fae, for that matter.
Shovel man, he’d called me. Just remembering it made the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Who did he think he was? Strolling into town on his bewitched carriage, enchanting everyone with his sticky, sparkling smile, the glimmer in his eyes. He reminded me of something beautiful and brilliant, yet brittle. Hollow. Fool’s gold. A lump of pyrite.
“And yet I can’t deny that he is very pretty indeed.”
My eyes widened with stark horror. Those words had come out of my own mouth. I glanced around fearfully, wondering if anyone had heard me. Passing townsfolk, some children playing in the bushes. No one. Good.
I dunked my entire head in the bucket. Perhaps the cold water would bring me to my senses. Perhaps if I was lucky, I would drown in the attempt.
After some more dunking and judicious scrubbing, I’d made myself as clean as I could get. Long day ahead, starting with replenishing my stocks. I hadn’t just forgotten about drawing water to drink, neglecting to stay on top of my food supplies.
Back home — when it was once a home — we had iceboxes to keep food fresh. A staple in the kitchens of those who could afford them, these marvelous wooden chests. Inscriptions of low magic infused them with spells of chilling cold. So enchanted, they could be used to store and extend the freshness of vegetables, meat, even entire plucked birds. But they were expensive, too.
No such luxuries in Barrowdeep, but the people made do. Jeromah’s pies kept longer than they should have, whether she made them with preserved fruit or hearty chunks of meat. The Ugly Mug was a fine enough tavern for decent ale, but the real draw was Jeromah’s cooking. I’d never seen a hint of her practicing spellwork in any form. Still I could swear the woman wove magic into food with her fingers.
My body patted dry, my hair mostly neat and gathered into a knot at the back of my head, I peered into the mirror for a final look. My old shield, in fact, the only piece of forged armor I’d actually kept, polished to a sheen and propped up by the one chest that held all my belongings. But never mind that.
“Good enough,” I grumbled, tucking a few errant strands of hair behind my ear. I pulled on a clean shirt, hung my wicker basket from the crook of my elbow, and picked up my trusty shovel. Just in case. Time to head into town.
The Ugly Mug was my first stop, naturally, the aroma of Jeromah’s baked goods drifting along the breeze, greeting me long before I’d even spotted the tavern’s creaky swinging sign. Painted on the wood was a stout mug, only stylized to resembled the scrunched-up face of a man, the froth on top resembling his hair.
All the locals said that it was the spitting image of Jeromah’s husband, slain in one of the ghoul attacks long ago, before I ever came to Barrowdeep. By all accounts, Herbert was a good man, quick to laugh, easy to love. They never did have any children. I imagined it was why Jeromah was so kind to all the little ones.
She pretended it annoyed her, how they’d play so loudly by the tavern, and she’d always make a fuss and bluster. Every child she sent away mysteriously left with mouths stained with berry preserves, wiping crumbs from their chins as they scurried off in laughter. No child of Barrowdeep ever had to pay to eat at the Ugly Mug.
I walked by one of the tavern’s open windows, several pies waiting to cool on the sill. I couldn’t help myself, stopping to take an indulgent sniff. Ah. Carrots and steak and potatoes in the shinier ones, their crusts gleaming with glaze. And the ones with the lovingly woven crusty latticework — a hint of sugar and cinnamon. Apple pie, perhaps?
“You,” boomed a voice from within. “Leoric the gravekeeper. I knew it. Stealing pies so early in the morning?”
I knew Jeromah was only joking, but I stood ramrod straight, thumping my chest as I feigned offense. “How dare you, Jeromah? You know I would never steal from you, nor from anyone else in town.”
Her grinning face loomed out of the window, her huge fists gripping the edge of the sill. “I wish you would. Just the once. I haven’t gotten into a good, proper scrap in a long time.”
I shook my head and laughed. I believed Jeromah when she hinted at her scrapping skills, too. A loud voice and a strong arm were both very useful tools for anyone who ran a tavern for a living.
“Come on in, then,” she said, nodding toward the front door. “I made some pork buns today as well. Saved some for you.”
Smiling gratefully, I accepted her invitation, going around the front of the tavern. My smile dropped when I caught sight of the horseless carriage from the night before, still sitting in the town plaza. Today it had drawn the attention of the townsfolk.
Noises of awe and amusement came from the gathered villagers as the fae man performed his little tricks. He snapped his fingers, and with a bang, a bright pink spark erupted over his audience, their faces bathed in its light.
Metal clanked as Riggs, one half of the town guard, clapped his gauntleted hands in delight. Under a nearby tree, the other half — his father, Redginald — snored away.
Orphium whistled. The glowing spark burst into a flock of doves, a lovely fuchsia, their color as deep as orchids. The doves soared into the sky, leaving a shower of petals and feathers as they ascended. The children laughed. The villagers applauded.
“Sorcery,” I muttered.
As if he’d somehow heard me across the plaza, Orphium turned his head just so, staring straight into my eyes. He grinned, waggled his fingers, and winked. My heart thumped. I frowned harder and ducked into the Ugly Mug, where Jeromah was already wrapping pies and buns with string and paper. I glared over my shoulder and out through the doorway as she worked, watching as Orphium performed another of his so-called illusions.
“You should pay more attention when people are packing your food. I could be poisoning your buns.”
I turned to Jeromah with a start. She gave me a wicked smirk.
“That’s how I killed my husband, you know.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Very funny, Jeromah. I’ll be sure to keep one eye on you next time.”
She sniffled, but her expression never changed. “Or at least that’s how I would have killed him if those bastards from the graveyard didn’t get to him first. You eat up and keep yourself strong, gravekeeper. You keep on keeping our grubby little village safe.”
Exactly as I’d done, from the very first night I set foot in Barrowdeep. I gave her a firm, reassuring nod, coins jingling in my pouch as I counted out the currency.
“No payment,” she growled, pushing another miniature pie into my basket, like a warning.
“But Jeromah, I — ”
She picked up her rolling pin. I ran like hell.
We played this game too often, in my opinion, the one where she refused to take any money for her pies. Surely at some point she would accept payment. The gesture, however, never went unappreciated. When I ate one of Jeromah’s creations, I always remembered to be grateful. This was good, life in Barrowdeep. Quiet. Simple.
Except now we had that glittering buffoon in the plaza, bringing his chaos and cacophony. I kept my head low as I passed the carriage on my way to my next destination. The greengrocer, because as delicious as Jeromah baked them, man could not — and should not — live on pies alone.
Pennifer smiled and waved as she spotted me from her stall, which always heaved to bursting with newly harvested fruits and vegetables. It had to be something about the soil in Barrowdeep, if not the water. There was magic in the earth, despite the growing undead blight. Just another reason for me to fight the ghoulish infestation as hard as I could.
“Lovely to see you again, Pennifer,” I said, planting my shovel in the ground, my basket of baked goods dangling from my arm.
She giggled as she tucked a lock of lovely cornsilk hair behind her ear. “Oh, you say that every single time, Leoric. And I never grow tired, for whatever reason. Always nice to see a friend.”
I cleared my throat and smiled politely. I tried not to offer more than I was willing to give, but it often felt as though Pennifer liked me a little more than a friend. She was a beautiful young lady, so sweet and kind. Lucky was the suitor who would one day win her hand. But my preferences bent in a different direction, and I didn’t know how to tell her that.
“Have you heard, Leoric?” Pennifer asked, breathy with excitement. “About the man with the pointy ears?”
“I met him last night, actually,” I said, with a mix of embarrassment and pride, as if I was in the know. A dubious privilege, being one of the first to meet this Orphium of the Dawning Court.
“Very intriguing, him and all his magic tricks.” She rested her elbow on her stall, then cupped her chin, grinning dreamily. “And quite handsome, too.”
“If you say so,” I mumbled, carefully avoiding her gaze.
“But enough about that — here, the finest apples,” she said, gathering two, three, four of them. “As sweet and crisp as anything that grows in the gardens of Il-venesse.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” I said, reaching for my coin pouch. Skin cracked on skin as she slapped my hand away.
“You offend me, Leoric. These apples, I picked for you myself.” She dropped them into my basket one by one, the weight increasing even as the guilt grew in my belly. “And I’ll hear no argument from you.”
I scratched the back of my neck. “I came for more than just the apples. You’ll let me pay for the rest, of course.”
Pennifer’s smile could shatter a man’s heart. “That depends on how you intend to pay.”
I could feel myself blushing from ear to ear. I hurriedly picked out a pair of onions, a half dozen potatoes, and a handful of mushrooms, dropping a fistful of coins on Pennifer’s stall. And once again I ran like hell, even as she shouted that I’d paid far too much.
This boggled the mind, truly, how everyone in town seemed to be enamored by this Orphium and his strange little emporium. What did he even have to sell? Had everyone gone mad? He was still one of the fae. As novel a notion as it was to have a member of such a mysterious species pay Barrowdeep a visit, shouldn’t we have treated his arrival with a little more scrutiny?
I slapped myself in the forehead, jostling my basketful of treats. I knew I’d forgotten something. A skin of wine or a little barrel of ale, something to help stave off the cold as I worked by night, an aid for lifting my spirits as I toiled alone under the moon. I chewed on my bottom lip, cursing my forgetfulness.
That meant going back to the Ugly Mug. On one hand, it meant having to see Orphium and his caravan and his annoying face. On the other, it meant getting to see Orphium and his caravan and his admittedly pretty face.
“Get it together, Leoric,” I muttered, turning on my heel, almost colliding headfirst with Father Whiston.
“Leoric,” he said, clapping me by the shoulder after helpfully retrieving a potato that had attempted to liberate itself from my basket. “Talking to yourself can be an interesting way to work out your thoughts, but I’m quite concerned about that look on your face.”
I stiffened and frowned immediately. “What look?”
The priest laughed, motioning at my face. “That one. Very defensive. Quite fierce, too. What’s on your mind?”
I ran my hand along the top of my head, smoothing back my hair. “It’s nothing. It’s just — gods, I’ll just say it.” I took a half step forward, leaning in to whisper. “Am I the only one who isn’t so wildly thrilled about this Orphium person coming to town?”
Father Whiston’s face fell. He raised a finger — the lecturing finger. “Now, now, Leoric. We are all the same in the eyes of the gods, regardless of race, the color of our blood, or how many legs we walk on.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at,” I hissed. Or maybe it was. “All I’m saying is that we need to be more wary about outsiders, especially the magical sort.”
Whiston cocked an eyebrow. “Honestly, Leoric, I didn’t think you’d be the kind to let your prejudices get the better of you.”
The blood rushed to my cheeks. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. He’s a grifter. A charlatan. He’s here to play his devious games, and — ”
The priest held up a hand to stop me, then gestured toward the plaza. “You mean those devious games?”
Orphium was squatting in the midst of a crowd of children, his hands cupped over the grass. Each time he lifted his hand, a bright pink chick would come running out between his fingers, chirping as it raced away. The children chased after them, laughing when they disappeared in little bursts of petals or dissolved into soapy bubbles, floating up and away.
“Very devious, indeed,” Father Whiston said, smirking.
“That’s enough out of you, Father.”
He laughed. I frowned even harder.
The two of us watched as Jeromah shooed the children out of her way, offering Orphium something with both hands. He accepted gratefully, smiling, and in my opinion, simpering. It was a mug of something steaming — hot cider, perhaps, or coffee, or some tea. And a little wooden tray of crackers. I narrowed my eyes at him across the plaza .
“Look at him over there. Eating crackers.”
Father Whiston clucked his tongue and chuckled. “You’re overthinking this, Leoric. I don’t think our pointy-eared guest has come with ill intent.”
I scoffed. “Mark my words. That one’s trouble.”
Again, as if he’d heard me, Orphium turned his head. Locking eyes with me, he raised his mug and called out a familiar greeting. I couldn’t quite hear him over the laughter of children, but I could make out the words as he mouthed them.
“Shovel man,” Orphium said.
Father Whiston chuckled. “I think he likes you, Leoric.”
I gritted my teeth.