Then he stopped and looked at Talen more closely. “Is that blood? What happened to your face?”
Talen poured out everything that had happened, including his run through the woods. As the story progressed, Da stroked the braids of his beard with increasing anger.
When Talen finished, Da set his scythe aside and stood.
“Are you going?”
“It appears I am,” said Da.
“Should we bring our bows?” asked Talen. “Or would billhooks be better?”
“Billhooks?” asked Da.
“In case we’re attacked.”
Da grunted. “You’re going out to glean. We’ve got a field that needs stacking.”
“But the hatchlings,” said Talen.
“The hatchlings,” said Da. “Son, did you not learn anything from your adventure this morning? Even if the children were Sleth, the greater risk is being mistaken for a Soul-eater by an idiot with hunt fever. We’re talking about two children, however ferocious they may be.” Da shook his head. “You said a Fir-Noy rider brought the message? That’s the problem right there.”
“Shouldn’t we at least give the warnings some credit until we find out otherwise?”
“Sparrow was a good man,” said Da. He heaved a great sigh.
Talen had not known the smith very well. However, he’d always wondered about his name. He’d thought it funny such a mighty man would be named for such a little bird. Talen, Ke, and Nettle were named after noteworthy ancestors. His sister was named so she might be granted all the qualities—the strength, life, purpose—of a River. But Sparrow? Talen had found out that the smith’s family had a long line of Sparrows, all named after an actual bird that had saved one of the family’s progenitors from drowning. He’d always wanted to hear that tale, but now he wasn’t so sure.
A great weariness seemed to descend upon Da. “You could search this whole land. You could search the whole Nine Clans, and not find Sparrow’s better.”
“But he was Sleth,” said Talen.
Da shook his head. “If Sparrow was Sleth, then fish swim in the deep blue sky.” He turned to Talen. “Do you still have the peppercorns?”
Talen nodded. He opened the small pouch hanging around his neck that served as his purse, poured out the corns, and handed them over.
Da took them with his large fingers and carefully placed them in his own pouch.
“Get out to the field and help with the stacking,” said Da. “I’m going to fetch us some hens and go talk to the bailiff.” Da turned and headed for the barn. “By the way, I found your pants wadded up under your bed,” he called back. “They’re lying on the table.”
“I looked under my bed,” said Talen.
Da shrugged. “They were there, plain as day.”
That was impossible. Talen had moved his bed out. He would have seen them.
Talen turned and went in to the house to get his old pants. These were stained, thanks to the Stag Home idiots, with blood and grass and would take an hour of washing to get them clean. When he came back outside, Da had Iron Boy saddled.
Da’s unstrung hunting bow stood in the leather bow bag strapped along Iron Boy’s side. He should have been taking his war bow. “I’ll be back before dark,” Da said. He secured what he called the Hog behind the saddle.
The Hog was an axe with a handle about as thick as four fingers and a shaft as long as Talen’s arm. The head was not broad like a timber axe, but short and narrow with a blade at one end and a pick at the other. But it was used for other things. An archer needed a weapon for close work. He needed something for when he exhausted his supply of arrows. The Hog could pierce armor when wielded by a man half Da’s size, and Da had killed three Bone Faces last year with it. But he did not reverence it as many men would: most of the time he used it to break up the bee propolis in the hives or to chop kindling.
“If you find any Sleth,” said Da, “be sure to tell them you’re tough and gamey and not at all fit for dinner.” A little bit of a smile softened his grim expression.
“Easy for you to say,” said Talen.
“We’re going to be fine, Talen,” he said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” He picked up the reins and led Iron Boy away.
Talen watched him go. Then he looked at the woods and swallowed.
THE HUNT
O
n the day before Talen took his beating, Barg, the harvest master and butcher of the village