3

  THE STORM

  ??

  It was nearly nightfall by the time Isabel reached the small farmhouse she called home; a snug and cosy domicile, with a single bedroom and a nook set aside for the kitchen. Beneath the dripping eve hung an elegant rack of antlers, courtesy of a hart her father had felled long ago, now bleached by the sun of nine summers—it was crowned in a bountiful wreath of twigs, leaves, and dried berries she had fashioned for the autumn season, half blown away by the storm. A small window looked out over the path to the front door, which ran along fields of tall grass where stalks of wheat once waved when her father was young and more diligent in tending his harvests; Isabel cared not for the fields, but instead grew a bountiful garden near the house, which sustained her handily.

  She held up the basket, frowning at the broken handle—it was a lopsided one woven of river rushes, which Ember had blushingly given her as a gift, when he was younger and even more foolish. If he were here, she wound send it to his cabin for mending, as he had always been rather better at that sort of thing.

  Perhaps she would try her hand at repairing it herself, when it had dried.

  Eager as Isabel was to kindle a blazing fire on her own hearth, she resolutely marched through the muddy fields to the barn; as she kept no livestock, it was home only to her tall brown mare.

  The horse had been bestowed upon her by Hunter, who had acquired it some time before his last visit to their valley. It was hers to keep, he had generously declared, until the previous owner came to claim it—and as such a person had never turned up, Isabel had finally resigned herself to giving the creature a name. Although somewhat spooked of loud noises, it had an easygoing and affectionate nature which Isabel appreciated. No one had taught her to ride in her youth, but one of Alden’s sons had humoured her that year, and she now found she rather enjoyed it; there was a freedom and a power in knowing that, together, they could outrun almost anything which might wish to trouble them.

  “Hullo, Primrose,” she soothed, stepping into the shelter of the barn.

  Primrose stamped and huffed, bobbing her head. Isabel carefully shut the door and poured some oats into a bucket, hoping the sound would cheer her, but a tremendous crash of thunder shook the ground and Primrose merely swung her head to and fro, ears flicking frantically.

  “This storm has me a bit out of sorts, too,” Isabel admitted calmly, grabbing a handful of oats. “Here, Primrose, here.”

  And she flattened her fingers.

  The tall mare flapped her lips against Isabel’s palm with delicate precision, consuming the offering in a single mouthful and crunching irritably. Isabel stroked her dusty shoulder, and then scratched her favourite spot at the base of her neck while she munched.

  “Perhaps,” she murmured, “the storm will pass in the night.”

  But she wasn’t at all sure.

  In fact, the longer she had stayed out in the miserable squall, the more agitated and uncertain she felt—and neither agitation nor uncertainty were familiar feelings to Isabel. A thin mist had crept along the forest path in places, pounded into the dirt by the cold rain and springing up again beneath bushes and under trees. She also had that same creeping sensation of being watched which had bothered her near the cabin ruins, and continuously looked over her shoulder on the journey home. Indeed, she felt compelled to do so—she couldn’t have kept her eyes from darting about if she had tried.

  “Do try to catch a wink of sleep, Primrose,” she said at last, giving her another pat and returning to the door. The horse followed her part of the way, and then swished her tail, whickering. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  As Isabel crossed the field to the farmhouse, her boots squelching into the freezing muck with every step, she caught a faint scent through the cold rain – tangy, sweet, and faintly bitter. Another peal of thunder rattled her teeth, and she hurried the rest of the way to the house. A cup of tea and a blanket would do nicely in this weather.

  If she didn't warm herself quickly, she would certainly catch a chill.

  ?

  Isabel did not know whether it were night or early morning, but the hour was dark and the storm unabated. She had awakened to find herself kneeling on the long wooden bench in nothing but her shift, staring out the window into the pitch black with her fingertips pressed against icy glass. A cold sweat drenched her spine and she shivered, struggling to remember how she had gotten there.

  She had never been a waking dreamer—she must have heard something outside. But why could she not recall it, and for what purpose would she open the shutters?

  Isabel peered into the darkness for a moment, through the rain which poured from the eve, and listened to the grumbling of the storm.

  Nothing moved.

  Then she saw a shadow near the edge of the field, by the forest. It melted into the treeline, wavering in and out of view like the trail of smoke from a blown-out candle. The stormy clouds parted just enough for a thin strand of moonlight to break through, and for a moment she thought a tall figure stood upon the distant path, clad in naut but the darkness and a feathery cloak.

  The moonlight vanished.

  Chills prickled across her arms and neck and she thumped the shutters closed, settling the latch firmly in place.

  Was I going to open the window?

  It was a disquieting notion.

  Isabel returned to the little room at the back of the house, and stood beside the bed for a moment, arms crossed. She half wanted to curl up beneath the quilted covers and go back to sleep—but the fire had done little to warm the room, and it wouldn’t do to let it go out while she slumbered. So she stole barefoot across the cold floorboards and dragged two of the blankets from her straw-stuffed mattress; a bit of dried lavender fell to the floor and she trod over it, enjoying the crushed sweetness.

  The fire had diminished to a few crackling embers. As she retrieved the poker with a scrape and a clang, her spine prickled, and she glanced over her shoulder at the barred shutters.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Tea, she thought, adding another log to the fire and shuffling into the kitchen for the kettle. She hung it above the kindling flames and crouched beside the hearth, rubbing her hands together and blowing into her fingers. The wind howled outside the window, shaking the shutters and creaking every timber of the old farmhouse.

  Her thoughts turned, then, to Hunter Nomanson.

  The storm had rolled in with the old wayfarer, and though it was strange to connect the two in her head—Hunter and the storm—he certainly had been out of sorts. The downpour itself did not seem cause for alarm, as he had ridden off without a backward glance. Regardless, something had riled him, and whatever it was could not be remedied with a simple mug of ale.

  She hoped he’d found a cave or a hollow, someplace to shelter from the deluge—for even one as familiar with the elements as he was not immune to their ravages.

  “It is not,” she decided aloud, “my concern.”

  Isabel always resolved to put things out of her mind immediately, if—after some reflection—there was nothing to be done about them. Such was the plight of the drunkard; and so, brushing aside the memory of the previous day, Isabel wearily selected a book from her little shelf near the kitchen and curled up on the floor in front of the hearth.

  It was the first and only gift her father had sent to her from Ridgefell, though he had no love of reading himself. She had acquired the taste from her mother, who taught her the fine art of losing herself in words. Most of the books she passed down to Isabel had been read to the point of rote memorization, and were quite old and yellowed.

  This one she had only read twice through; the pages were still crisp, and smelled faintly of the dried lavender sprigs her father had sent with the book.

  THE WANING OF THE NYMFS

  - as sung by -

  Eomar Silvertongue

  Hark to the hymn of the Tanglewood, which guards the shining sea,

  Where sprites of leaf and bough were stood by magical decree;

  An army of them gathered there, a legion wildborne

  Called forth of every bush and bole to aid their masters sworn.

  So many nymfs did perish when the king forsook his oath

  That ne’er again would the race of men convoke their ancient troth;

  Far fell those fair folk from the tales our bards sing in the light,

  And fled to dim and olden vales, into eternal night…

  Isabel sipped her tea, and turned the page, and let the bardic faerie tale carry her into far-off lands; the storm and chill loosed their grasp as her thoughts strayed into a familiar realm, where reality bowed before the fancies of the mind.

  Nonetheless, every few pages she found her gaze drifting to the mantle, where the firelight danced across her father's old crossbow.

  It was a simple weapon, requiring no cranken or windlass, and had been fashioned from yew and ash. Her father had commissioned it from a well-reputed arbalist in the northern reaches when she was young; the draw weight was light enough that she could handily hook the toe of her boot through the stirrup and, with an effort, load the bow.

  She had only carried it once or twice while walking the valley, and had never required anything more lethal than a simple throwing stone, but she took comfort that it was there, should she have need of it. Isabel finally put aside the book and stared at the bow for a long while in silence, admiring the way the light sank into the darker stain near each end of the lath.

  In the end it was not any persuasion of practicality which saw her lifting the weapon from the mantle, but a soft sound which pierced the howling wind of the storm and echoed across the valley, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

  A whistle…

  It rose, then fell steeply, and wandered off into an aching trill which warbled on far longer than any bird call she had ever heard.

  Hunter's warning of whistles after dark tripped through her mind, and in the span of a few short moments she had secured the weapon, braced it with one bare foot, and drawn the string across the goat's foot notch. She snatched up a handful of feathered quarrels and placed them on the table with a clatter—one of these she secured along the tiller.

  Then she moved to the middle of the room, attired in nothing but her shift with a loaded crossbow at her shoulder.

  Certainly it was best to be prepared…

  Prepared for what? It was a question she could not answer. What are you doing, Isabel?

  Rain tapped frantically against the windowpanes and spattered the wooden stoop outside, but she heard nothing else. Isabel tsked her tongue; she had just made up her mind to set aside the crossbow when the whistle came again, closer and louder than before.

  It echoed across the field, and slickened her palms with sweat.

  That time, it seemed almost a summons.

  There was an insidious sort of urgency in the way it rose and fell—a primal hunger.

  Come...

  She took an instinctive step toward the door, and lowered the crossbow slightly. Then something creaked outside; she shifted her hand from beneath the trigger to a ready grip—the lightest touch would send the quarrel shooting from the bow.

  Another creak.

  The timbers of the farmhouse shifting in the wind?

  A scuffling foot on the stoop?

  She took a breath—

  And the door jumped on its hinges with a loud BANG which rattled the house and jarred her teeth. It was followed by another thump, louder than the first.

  Any passerby could smell the woodsmoke from her fireplace, and see the plume arising from the chimney—so it would do no good to pretend she was away from the house. And suppose it was Alden, or one of the other villagers in need of aid? What was she to do?

  THUD, THUD, THUD.

  Isabel flinched.

  There was no mistaking it now: someone wanted her to open the door—desperately. For a moment, she thought she heard a cry in the storm, but the wind shook the house and rain roared on the roof, drowning everything in the thunderous downpour.

  "Name yourself!" she shouted at last, as loudly as she could manage—which was not very, for her mouth had gone rather dry and her tongue felt like cotton.

  She listened in heartpounding silence, but not a sound came from the door.

  Isabel took another step forward, the bow shaking against her shoulder, and reached for the latch.

  I can shoot to kill, she reminded herself, if I'm quick.

  It was not as much of a comfort as she had hoped. Before the rational part of her brain could think of an argument, she unfastened the latch and danced back a pace, sighting down the crossbow.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then the door let out a guttering moan, and creaked slowly inward. She held her breath as it swung wide into the house, and the dark maw of the storm appeared before her, rain spraying across the threshold.

  A broad figure loomed upon the stoop.

  It pitched forward.

  Isabel yelled, and the crossbow snapped back in her hands.

  Firelight flickered across the figure as it toppled, illuminating a torn cloak and a doublet dark with blood.

  Hunter.

  The quarrel whizzed from the tiller.

  His great bulk fell beneath it and struck the table with a stuttering scrape.

  Lightning flashed.

  A naked shadow leapt behind him, eyes black as river stones, mouth agape in a fanged snarl.

  The bolt pierced its neck with a sickening thkk.

  FIRST BLOOD.

  Song of Ember was. [Note: there will still be much interpersonal dialogue and the addition of some politicking as well, so if you like the quieter character moments, don't you worry!] Chapter 3 might be my favourite so far - hopefully you enjoyed reading it, too!

  for the early review!