The youth, Matt, seemed much as he had before, worried and scared and beaten down, though perhaps with some small spring in his step. The only one who seemed to have taken no notice that they had left the Black Woods behind was Cutter. The big man only continued to trudge down the path with a walk that somehow seemed weary and threatening at the same time, as if he could do with a good nap but was more than willing to shatter any obstacle that had the misfortune to find itself in his path before then.
Maeve thought it was funny how fifteen years could pass and a woman could find herself in almost the exact same circumstances she’d thought far behind her. Or maybe it wasn’t funny at all, but one of those cruel cosmic jokes which, if it elicited laughter at all, elicited the kind that sounded so very much like screams.
They’d traveled for less than an hour when the fields of grass began to change to crops, corn and wheat. Maeve recognized them well enough from her time spent working—or, if she was being particularly honest with herself, hiding—in her garden. She expected to see men and women bent at the labor of working the crops, but the fields were empty, devoid of any life, the only sign that people called the village home coming in the sign of pillars of smoke rising in the air ahead of them.
Minutes later, they crested a ridge, and she was able to see what must have been the village of Ferrimore that Cutter had told them about. Or at least what was left of it. As she stared at the distant village, Maeve realized that the columns of smoke she’d seen, ones she’d taken, at the time for evidence of fires lit to fight off the chill of winter’s bite, had, in fact, a far grimmer source.
As she and the others stood there gazing at the smoking husks of what once had been homes and shops, she realized why she had seen no men or women working the fields. Those who might have were no doubt far too busy at repairing their homes. If, that was, they were alive at all.
“Fire and Salt,” Chall breathed beside her. “What happened here? Is it…is it Feledias? Did he somehow realize we were coming?”
Cutter grunted. “I don’t think so.”
Maeve frowned, for she had been having much the same thought as the mage. She turned to regard the big man. “If it wasn’t Feledias, then who? Who would have done th—”
“Come on,” Cutter said grimly, and he started down the path leading toward the village.
“Are you…are we sure that’s a good idea?” Chall asked, his unease clear in his tone. “I mean…this place doesn’t look like a great one to take shelter in just now. Perhaps there’s another—”
“There isn’t another place,” Cutter said, turning to regard him. “Not for miles. Unless, that is, you want to take your chances with Valaidra.”
Chall winced, glancing to Maeve as if for help, but she had no help to give, felt just as confused and unnerved as the mage, and after a moment of silence Cutter nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, and he started toward the village once more.
Left with no other options, Maeve and the others followed. As they drew closer to the village of Ferrimore, Maeve began to pick out more signs of destruction. Most of the village’s buildings had been made from stone and so still remained, though few were those that were not charred and scorched from flames. Their roofs, though, most which would have been made of straw or wood, had not fared nearly so well, most completely gone while a few seemed to have retained some small bit of their materials.
And if the sight of such devastation—though what might have caused it she couldn’t imagine, the only one who might have seeming to be Cutter who, as usual, chose to remain silent—wasn’t enough, there was the smell which clung to her nostrils. Smoke, yes, but something worse than that, a smell she had not smelled in some time, one she had hoped to never smell again. Blood. A lot of it.
The youth walking beside her paused, glancing into the field beside the path. “Maeve?” he asked. “What…what is that?”
Maeve stopped, following his gaze, and saw a form lying in the field, partially obscured by the grass. Partially, but not completely. A corpse. A woman’s judging by the size, though the grass made most of her identity a mystery. Maeve had seen such corpses before, the remains of battles, ones which stood as mute argument against those who managed to be alive following such a battle, which lay in silent accusation of any who might claim the day a victory. A quick glance around showed other such forms in the grass on either side, lumps of fabric that, obscured as they were, might have been taken for no more than clothes—most blood-stained, which had been scattered about. She took the boy’s hand. “Best not look at them, lad,” she said softly as she led him on down the path after Cutter who, while he could not have failed to notice the devastation and the bodies, did not deem it worth pausing to notice.
The boy hesitated for a moment but then he allowed himself to be led away and, a moment later, was walking past her, lost in his own thoughts. “I don’t like this, Mae,” a voice said softly from beside her, and she glanced over to see that Chall had walked up. “Not at all. Something’s happened here. Something bad.”
Maeve glanced sidelong at him. “Oh?” she snapped. “Cast a magic spell to figure that one out, did you?”
Chall recoiled, obviously hurt by the
