The Hag's Contract

Epilogue

At dawn, Wren unlatched the small shed and let loose her family’s herd of seven goats. She’d take them to feed on the mountainside this morning, she decided. She knew of a small clearing where long yellow grass still stood. The goats had been there only twice so far this fall, and they would still find plenty to eat.

“Get up, there,” she said, swatting old Gray-beard with her walking stick. He had hesitated and looked like he wanted to bolt in the wrong direction. She didn’t want to spend the morning chasing him.

Bells jingling, the goats cooperated for once and set off in the right direction, across the empty fields covered with the stubble of mown hay. It was almost as if the goats smelled the grass waiting for them.

Wren followed. Her thoughts drifted to the coming harvest dance. Now that her father and brothers had brought in the last of the crops and mowed enough hay to last the winter, they could relax a little until the spring planting. Now that she was fourteen, time had come to start looking for a husband, and more and more her thoughts turned to Gunder Lann. He was fifteen, but unmarried yet, and certainly handsome enough … and he’d be at the harvest dance….

At last she reached the clearing. The goats, drifting apart, began to eat.

Wren sat on a fallen log to watch. Herding goats could be frustrating sometimes and boring other times. Boring as long as she watched them, because they knew not to try any of their tricks, and frustrating because the moment her attention drifted, they would seize the opportunity to run off. She’d lost count of how many times she’d had to chase Graybeard across fields and forest, trying to catch him. No, she’d pay attention today, she thought.

The goats continued to graze, the little copper bells around their necks jingling now and again.

Suddenly a low moan interrupted the quiet.

Wren leapt to her feet and looked around. She didn’t see anyone. Who could have made that sound?

The moan came again, louder. It seemed to be coming from the trees behind her.

“Who’s there?” she called, peering this way and that. She tightened her grip on her walking stick in case she had to defend herself. There shouldn’t be anyone here, but in the edges of civilization all sorts of dangers lurked. Her parents had warned her often enough to watch her step. Although they’d never seen one, goblins were rumored to live in the mountains.

The moan came again. It sounded like someone hurt.

Wren hesitated. Then, with her walking stick upraised like a club, she slowly made her way into the trees.

Someone lay there, on the leaves … a man dressed in rags. His short black hair was matted and filthy, and he smelled of something indescribably foul.

“Who are you?” she demanded, nose wrinkling.

He turned his face toward her. His lips were thick and purplish. Blood and bruises marred his features, but she thought he might have been handsome once.

“Help me …” he gasped.

“Who are you?” she demanded again.

“Captain … Parniel… Bowspear …”

That seemed to be too much for him. He collapsed, eyes rolling back in his head. She could see that he was still breathing, though.

Wren hesitated, wondering what to do. Finally she took off her cloak and spread it over the stranger. He needed it more than she did right now. Then, whistling to the goats, she herded them back together and began the long trek down to her family’s farm. Her father would know what to do, she thought.

“Phew, he stinks!” said a young man’s voice.

“Don’t he!” said another.

“Quiet there,” a deeper voice said. “Get him up.”

Bowspear felt strong hands lifting him. It hadn’t been a dream or an hallucination, he realized. He really had seen that young woman. She really had gone for help.

He could barely breathe, barely move, but he managed to open his eyes. Farmers … four of them, a man and three boys who looked enough like him that they had to be his sons. Together they carried him to an ox-drawn cart and put him in the back. He closed his eyes as they covered him with blankets that smelled of horse sweat. Bowspear didn’t mind. He just wanted to be warm again.

The rocking, jarring passage to their farm seemed to take forever. At last, though, they drove into a low barn and shut the doors. It was warmer in here, full of the smells of hay and animals.

With effort, Bowspear managed to sit up. They brought an oil lamp and held it over him, looking him over as though he were a prize calf.

“Where you from?” the farmer said. “Wren said your name was Bowspear.”

“Water …” he gasped.

One of the boys ran and fetched a small clay cup. He took it and drank deeply. Strengthened, he took a deep breath.

“I’ve been on a mission for King Graben,” he said.

“The king, huh,” the farmer scoffed. “The king’s locked up in Müden. Don’t you know that?”

Bowspear forced a laugh. “Of course I know it. We were supposed to free him …”

He launched into the tale of how he’d gone to help Captain Evann capture Orin Hawk from the Hag. It was half truth more than outright lie, and as he wove the tale, he saw their skepticism change to grudging belief to open admiration.

Yes, he thought, everyone would believe that tale when he got back to Alber. He’d have it well rehearsed by then, and with his men dead, no one could deny it. They probably thought him dead now. The mission had cost him a lot … but not everything. It would set his plans back. But one way or another he’d have Grabentod.

As he finished, Bowspear said, “It’s winter. You won’t have need of all your sons or your horses…. Lend me a horse and one of your boys to guide me back to Alber. I’ll see that he returns safely with rewards aplenty for you and yours.”

“Agreed,” the farmer said quickly. “Jerron, Guntre, get a bath ready for Captain Bowspear. We’ll get him cleaned up for his trip home.”

Yes, Bowspear thought, sitting up. He’d be back in Alber in two days.

At least Evann had failed in his plan to kidnap Orin Hawk. He smiled faintly. Hawk had been with the Hag up until the moment she’d tired of Bowspear and kicked him from her bed. And without Hawk, King Graben wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon….

Or ever, if Bowspear had his way.