Zareth wiped the sweat from his brow, the midday sun had become a physical weight on his shoulders. He stepped onto a beaten dirt track and squinted against the glare. To his surprise, a cluster of dilapidated roofs rose from the heat haze ahead.
"I didn't know there was a town here. But this is good."
He shifted the weight in his arms. The burden was no longer a swaddled infant. It was a boy who looked to be about seven years old and slept with the heaviness of the dead.
Zareth looked down at the child. Just last night, this creature had been a newborn. Now his legs dangled near Zareth's knees.
"You eat a monster and grow ten years in a night. I need answers, brat. But first, I need a horse and you need clothes."
He started toward the town. The settlement was quiet. A few farmers tended to withered fields but they moved with a lethargy that suggested life had lost its flavour long ago. They did not look up as he passed.
Zareth spotted a small, wooden abode near the edge of the road where a clothesline sagged under the weight of drying laundry. He scanned the yard and saw no one so he unlatched the gate.
Creak.
He approached the line and snatched a pair of small, rough-spun breeches and a tunic.
"Wake up."
Zareth knelt in the dirt and shook the boy. The child opened his red eyes but remained silent.
"Arms up. Now."
The boy obeyed. Zareth forced the stolen tunic over the child's head and pulled the breeches up his legs. He was careful to tuck the whip-thin tail down one pant leg so it remained hidden from view.
"Stay quiet," Zareth ordered.
The boy stared at him and blinked but said nothing. He seemed mute.
Zareth stood and grabbed a dusty coat from the line for himself. He slipped it on to cover his tattered vestments.
"Hey! You there!"
A hoarse male voice barked from behind him.
Zareth turned slowly. A man of about fifty stood on the porch. He held a shovel like a weapon.
"Thief!" the man shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"
Zareth didn't panic. He simply raised a hand in a calming gesture. "I am merely borrowing clothes for the boy. The sun is harsh and he has nothing."
The man stepped off the porch to confront him. But then his eyes fell upon the boy. He stopped dead. His anger evaporated and was replaced by a look of sheer bewilderment.
"You… you aren't from these parts."
"Obviously," Zareth replied.
The man looked left and right as if he expected demons to jump from the bushes. "Take the clothes. Just take them and leave. You need to get away from here quickly."
Zareth frowned. He didn't feel threatened by the man but his instincts picked up a lingering scent of fear. It was the smell of a dog that had been beaten too many times.
"Wait," Zareth said and stepped between the man and the door. "What is your name?"
"Wenamor," the man stammered. "Please, sir. Just go."
"I need a horse, Wenamor. I have silver. Sell me one and I will leave immediately."
Wenamor shook his head violently. "There are no horses here. No one is allowed to have them."
"No horses?" Zareth found this hard to believe. "You are farmers. How do you plow? How do you travel?"
"We don't travel," Wenamor whispered and leaned in close. "Having a horse… it implies you want to leave. And if you try to leave, it might lead to…"
He trailed off and his eyes grew wide. He looked over the wooden fence where two men walked by on the main road. They carried pitchforks and glared at Zareth with open hostility.
"Go!" Wenamor hissed. "Don't cause trouble!"
The man retreated into his house and slammed the door.
Bam!
Zareth sighed and exited the yard. He watched the men with pitchforks as they entered a building down the street. A sign hung above the door that depicted a cracked mug.
"A bar?"
Zareth felt the dry itch in his throat. The last drink he had was back at the peak of Maskorudeath before his retirement went to hell.
"I need a drink to gather my thoughts. And maybe these locals will be more talkative with ale in their bellies."
He hoisted the boy into his arms and walked toward the tavern.
Creak…
The door swung open and Zareth stepped into the dim interior. The smell of stale beer and sawdust greeted him. He walked to the bar but the atmosphere changed instantly. Conversation died. Every patron in the room stopped and turned to stare at him.
Zareth felt their eyes bore into his back but he ignored them. He sat the boy on a stool next to him and tapped the counter.
"Ale. And something for the lad. Water or milk."
The bartender was an old woman with skin like crumpled parchment. She stared at him for a long moment before she reached for a rag and began to wipe a glass.
"I'm Laviss. We don't get strangers here often."
"I noticed. I didn't even know this town existed."
"We've been here a while," Laviss replied as she poured a mug of dark liquid. "But we are small. We live in the shadow of the Blackthorn Estate. They own most of the land in this region."
Zareth froze with the mug halfway to his lips. Blackthorn Estate. The name flashed in his mind like a warning beacon. It was the place from the newspaper article. The home of the "Thousand-Child Tyrant."
Laviss wiped the counter with a dirty rag and her gaze settled on the sleeping boy in Zareth's arms.
"That's a cute fellow you have there," she said with a tired smile. "What is his name?"
Zareth paused because the question caught him off guard. He hadn't given the creature a name yet. To him, it was just a burden, or perhaps a curse wrapped in skin.
Before he could invent a lie, the old woman leaned over the bar so her face was inches from his. Her expression hardened. She whispered urgently.
"Listen to me. Finish your drink and leave here immediately."
Zareth raised an eyebrow and took a slow sip of his ale. "Another man told me the same thing just moments ago. You people certainly don't fancy outsiders."
He set the mug down and turned on his stool to scan the dim room. "But I noticed something else while I walked through town. I've only seen older men and women in this place. There are no youths. No babies. Why is that?"
CRASH!
The sound of shattering glass exploded behind him.
Zareth didn't flinch but he turned his head slowly. At a corner table, the burly farmer who had been carrying a pitchfork earlier stood up. A broken tumbler lay in shards at his boots. He glared at Zareth menacingly.
"You better leave this place, stranger. Get out now and don't ask so many questions."
The man took a step forward and his hands clenched into fists as if he wanted to stab Zareth to death right there.
"Calm down, Jerrick," another patron muttered nervously.
"Just go, sir," a woman at the next table urged Zareth. "Please."
Zareth turned back to Laviss and took another deliberate sip of his drink. "I would leave right away if I had a horse or cattle. Either is fine."
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small leather bag. He placed it on the counter where the silver coins inside clinked heavily.
"I am willing to pay."
The burly farmer snapped. He stormed across the room and his heavy boots thudded against the floorboards. He grabbed Zareth by the shoulder and shoved him roughly toward the bar exit.
"I said get out!" the farmer yelled. Spittle flew from his mouth. "Take your brat and leave now!"
He snatched the bag of silver from the counter and tossed it hard at Zareth's chest.
"We don't want your money! Go to hell!"
Zareth caught the bag with his free hand and stumbled slightly but he kept his grip on the boy. He looked down and saw that the child was awake. The boy stared over Zareth's shoulder and glared at the farmer with eyes that promised cold violence.
"Easy," Zareth whispered to the child.
It seemed these people were hiding something dangerous but Zareth decided to leave without causing trouble. He adjusted his coat and stepped out into the blinding afternoon sun.
He walked back down the dusty road and passed Wenamor's fence. As he walked, a low rumble vibrated through the soles of his boots.
A cloud of dust rose from the road ahead.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
A group of men on horseback approached. They rode hard.
"Horses," Zareth noted. "Maybe I can buy one from them."
But then he noticed the change in the town. The few people on the street didn't wave or greet the riders. They scrambled. Men dove behind fences. Women pulled their shutters closed. Wenamor peeked through his curtains with a face pale as milk.
Zareth stood his ground in the middle of the road.
The horses slowed as they reached him. They were massive beasts, black as coal, and the men who rode them wore uniforms that bore the crest of a thorned rose.
The lead rider pulled on his reins. The horse reared and kicked up a cloud of dust that coated Zareth's coat.
"Halt!"
The rider looked down at Zareth and then his gaze shifted to the boy in Zareth's arms. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face.
The rider said, "Well now. What have we here?"