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Wulfham
The Dark Lord . . . now there was a name to conjure his worst childhood fears. There were dark tales of this monster who dwelt in the land of shadows to the south and east. Across from Minas Tirith, it was said . . . with only the width of the River to stand between them. Even now, as he was a grown man, he could feel a cold chill race up his back and his knees tremble at the fabled demon now made real by Dorran’s words.
Brand clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder both to assure Dorran as he could and to reassure himself by with the feel of a friend’s real presence beneath his hand. He wondered at how Dorran had known the name of the dead Orc, or even that there were plantations in the shadowed land. And the mountain, what was that the he spoke of? Brand had never been more than twenty leagues from his village. Where had Dorran come from that he had seen such wretched and vile things?
He moved his hand then to take shield Dorran had thrust at him. It was ordinary enough in construction, but the very thought that some foul Orc had set it on his arm as he killed the people of the village with his sword or club made him cringe. He dropped the wicked-made thing, watching it as it tumbled to the ground and lay there face up. His eyes traced the insignia upon it . . . the crudely drawn red eye mocked him, and his stomach turned as he thought perhaps it had been painted in blood.
‘It is a filthy thing, Dorran,’ Brand said with a shudder. ‘And I would leave it here, save we should take it as a sign to show the King that the Dark Lord has already pushed this far into our fair land.’ Saying that, he picked up the shield and wrapping it in the singed cloak of a dead townsman, secured it to the back of Lady’s saddle.
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The little group did break into two parties. Incana and Dorran went to search the western half of the village, while Vaenosa and Brand would make their sweep through the eastern half. Brand had seen the dog come walking up behind his horse and look about, its nose sniffing the air, then head toward Incana as if he’d found a long lost friend. It was a moment of ordinary pleasure to see the animal and he thought of his own dog, Patch, whom he’d had to leave behind.
‘He seems to like you,’ he said, smiling toward Incana. She told him the story of finding the dog and in the end it was decided that the hound should go with Incana and Dorran. ‘He’ll be an extra set of eyes and ears, and a good nose for you,’ Brand had said. ‘If he gets too tired or you have to ride, just let him ride astraddle the saddle. I often do that with my own dog when we’ve far to ride.’
‘Vaenosa, let’s you and I ride out to that small cluster of cottages to the southeast . . . the ones just outside the village wall. I’m hoping to find us a spare horse or so . . . and when the raiders passed through, the animals might have gone back to a part of the village that had been hit early and then abandoned by the attackers.
When they got there, it was a small enough area that they could go their separate ways to search and still be in hailing distance of each other. Some of the cottages had been burned, but it looked as if the job had been a hastily done, and there were still a few of the thatched roof dwellings intact.
The dead were not quite as numerous here, and Brand wondered if they had gone into the village center as the attack began, thinking that they would be safer there. A few chickens wandered about the cottages, picking in the dirt; they kept their wary eyes on the two new intruders.
Brand watched as Vaenosa and nay made their way to the opposite side of this small living area. He could see her begin her search through the makeshift lean-to’s that were their stabling areas and through some of the huts still standing. He began to do the same.
As far as he could tell there was no one left alive in this little part of the village. He’d found a bag of oats . . . it would be good for the horses and for him and his companions, too. One ham had been left undisturbed in another hut’s little smoke house. He poked about a few more cottages, then stood out in the open and called to Vaenosa . . . just keeping contact with her so they both might know each other was alright.
In the side yard of the last little cottage he came to, he was surprised to find a garden of late autumn vegetables mostly undisturbed save that it looked as if a single Orc had walked or run heavily though the middle of it in haste . . . the last of the potatoes were still there, kept warm in the ground by small hillocks of straw, and a few neat rows of kale, leeks, and cauliflowers beckoned. There was also a smaller herb garden planted close to the house. Brand recognized only a few – some that his mother used in cooking; some that she used for her salves and potions when someone took ill. But there were others he had no idea if they were edible or poison. He decided to gather only the ones he knew about from his mother’s own garden.
The door to the cottage was open. Brand peeked into the shadowy interior, his ears wide open for any sound; his eyes darting about the ill lit room. It looked quite empty. And there, neatly folded and stacked on a stool just across the room were a number of canvas bags. Brand made his way toward them, intending to use them to carry what vegetables he could harvest . . .
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