Holding it out at arm’s length, he muttered something else they could not quite hear, and it twisted and grew, to become… a key.
Chapter 6: Settlers
Year of the Firestars (6 DR)
Ondeth Obarskyr was being watched, of that he had no doubt. Throughout the morning, he had felt someone’s eyes following his every move-an ever-present gaze that came not from the stockade or the houses, but from the forest itself.
It made him slightly anxious-an unseen watcher could mean no good-but there was nothing to be done about it, so Ondeth continued his tasks. For this day, that meant splitting the last large trees.
When they’d first arrived in this glen, it had been strewn with piles of uprooted trees and overgrown brush. Some of this tangle had rotted where it lay, and the Obarskyrs mixed it with the rich, crumbling earth to feed their crops. The larger chunks of hardwood that withstood the weather were used for building or burning, depending on their size and condition. The evening hearth and the firepit, it seemed, would have ample fuel for as many as four years.
Ondeth had already used the most suitable wood to erect the small stockade and the low houses within it- mean, small huts, unlike those his wife Suzara was used to back east. She bore up to the harsh conditions as best she could, but their evenings together often held hushed, whispered arguments in which Suzara spoke most, and about the same things: the dangers here, and how things would be so much safer on the eastern side of the sea, back in Impiltur.
Ondeth chose his next victim from the woodpile, a good-sized piece that young Rhiiman and Faerlthann had sawn into a thick, drum-shaped slice. The original tree had been scorched and apparently felled by lightning, and as such would be unsuitable for building. Everyone knew that using a lightning-struck tree in your home merely attracted more bolts from the blue. Ondeth grunted and hefted the thick chunk onto the chopping block, a stump of iron oak not worth the work needed to uproot it or carve it apart.
Whoever was spying on him, thought Ondeth, could at least be civil and introduce himself. Ondeth could definitely use some help.
The boys were out tending their snares. Ondeth’s younger brother Villiam was hurrying to finish his own house. Two days from now, the younger Obarskyr would begin the slow hike eastward to the rough-hewn, swampy port of Marsember, where the rest of his family would arrive. Perhaps Suzara would be happier with a few more women about.
Suzara wasn’t the mysterious watcher, of that he was certain. She had enough to do at the moment. Their last argument, hissed in urgent whispers in the depths of the night before, had been the worst so far.
“At least we could go back to Marsember!” she’d implored him, her head resting on his massive, hairy chest. She wouldn’t argue in front of the boys, so Ondeth lost sleep as they fought in whispers so as not to wake the others.
“When you first saw Marsember, you called it a poisoned swamp town,” he’d replied wearily.
“It is,” she said harshly, “but at least there are people there! Real people-not ghosts and goblins waiting beyond the trees.”
“There are no ghosts here,” said Ondeth, recognizing where this argument was going. Their disputes had begun to travel well-worn paths. “We are the first men and women here. It’s a chance for a new beginning.”
“I know there are ghosts. They’re watching from the woods.” Fear pervaded her tone, as it always did when she spoke of eyes in the trees.
“There’s no one out there,” Ondeth reassured her. ‘Well, perhaps some elves out hunting, but nothing else. Give it a full year, then we’ll decide.”
“I have already decided,” said Suzara. “I’m only waiting for you to agree.”
“We are staying,” said Ondeth firmly, in the iron tone of voice that signaled an end to the conversation. He had used that tone overmuch in recent days.
“So you say,” his wife hissed coldly, and he felt her jaw clench against his chest.
He curled one arm up to touch her shoulder and stroke the curving flesh there. She grasped his wrist tenderly, but held to it firmly. She’d not let him work his charms on her this evening, to cozen and calm her and convince her to stay. She would not let him reassure her that there were no strangers lurking in the forest waiting to slay them, that the crops they’d planted would bear rich yields, and that the vast stretches of land were better than the cramped city warrens they’d come from.
And when her ragged, angry breathing had at last grown long and measured, Ondeth Obarskyr looked into the darkness and wondered if he had been right in dragging Suzara and the boys all this way, to a small hold hedged by dark woods in the wild heart of the Realms.
He needed the boys to help him build, and he couldn’t leave Suzara behind alone, as Villiam had done with his Karsha. Yet she might wither and die here. Marsember was no more than a muddy straggle of ramshackle houses clustered around a few piers, but at least there were people for her to talk to there. They might have stayed there- or go back there now. Or perhaps further east, to Sembia. Southerners from Chondath held those towns, but it was said there were some eastern folk as well.
Or north. He’d heard the men up there had made their peace with the elves and agreed to settle the empty lands. A realm full of folk-even a rough, young place with little to buy or share, and no fine clothes or wine or idle company to enjoy-might well soothe Suzara’s concerns. Perhaps they had come too far, outstripping the support of town and farm and fellow human beings.
Perhaps when Karsha and Villiam’s eldest daughter Medaly arrived, things would be better. Perhaps in the morning, he told the darkness silently, things would be better.
But morning came, and Suzara remained distant and nervous, not sparing any of them more than a dozen words.
And now, as the last of the morning fog pulled away from the trees in tatters, Ondeth as well had gained the feeling of being watched. He thought with bitter mirth about how well wives could convince their mates of all manner of things. Perhaps it was a sort of magic women shared.
He examined the block of wood, turning it with his hardened hands. It was solid, free of fungus and rot, and its slow drying had opened a series of cracks radiating from the center. He chose the longest of them and set one of the thin iron wedges along the break.
The iron tools-wedge, hammer, and axe-were the most important things Ondeth had carried with him from Impiltur. He had his skinning knife, of course, and had bought the boys short, heavy-bladed swords of Chondathan design, but if they were going to survive here, he’d have to do more than just hunt. He’d thought of getting a steel blade for the plow, but until the first crop came in, there was nothing to sell, and therefore nothing to buy with.
He tapped a second wedge along the crack, wielding the sledge in one hand. Then he stepped back a few paces, shaking his shoulders to loosen them.
Wheeling the heavy-headed hammer in a great arc over his shoulders, Ondeth brought it down squarely on the wedge. Half its length disappeared into the wood, which jumped and quivered, and there was a satisfying crack.
Ondeth dealt another mighty blow to the first, inner wedge, and a third swing to the outer wedge again, forcing it deep into the wood. One more ought to do it.
He swung one last hammerblow, and the great chunk of hardwood split with a sound like sharp thunder. Two roughly even pieces rocked on the block, the last splinters fell away as he pulled them apart. Each could be comfortably carried. The exposed inner wood was solid, unaffected by decay. It would burn well.
The stranger was there when Ondeth looked up again. Ondeth would have started, but he wasn’t the sort of man to start.
“Morning,” he said instead, as if they both stood on a boggy street in Marsember.
“Good day,” the other man replied. He was certainly a beanpole of a fellow, slender to the point of emaciation. Yet this was no starveling, he was well groomed and wore a jacket and leggings of green linen. Elven
