If all women were like this Hallara–or Fawkes, for that matter–patriarchy wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, Hunter thought. What the medicine woman lacked in stature, she more than made up for in presence.
She was a tiny old thing clad in white fur garments, crowned with thick, equally white plaits that ran almost to her knees. Her wrinkled skin was tan and sunburnt, yet fine like vellum. She looked old and fragile; her jade green eyes, however, burned with an intensity that betrayed she was anything but that.
Vanchik, Daeran, and a couple of other folken–though not that angry guy Tego, Hunter noticed–hovered around Hallara like children holding on to the hem of their mother’s skirt. Gone was the alderman’s self-importance, gone was the watchman’s gruffness and bravado; in their place there was only respect. As Fawkes and Hunter joined the small huddle, they all fell silent and let the medicine woman do the speaking.
“Hile, Fawkes. May your days be many and your nights serene.”
“May the ancestors will it,” Fawkes answered. “Yours and mine both. For those of you I have not yet met, they call me Fawkes of the Lodge, of the Foreign West.”
The folken nodded, but remained silent.
“And you, young man?” the medicine woman turned to Hunter, her sharp eyes catching him by surprise.
“They call me Hunter,” he blurted. “Of the, uh… Lodge, too. Of the Foreign West.”
Fawkes stared daggers at him, indignant. He probably shouldn’t have added that last part. It must have been some kind of blunder, but it was too late to fix it. Fawkes went along with it and said nothing. She’d probably have quite a lot to say later, when they would be alone and out of the folken’s earshot.
If Hallara got any of that underlying context, she didn’t show it. She put her hand on Daeran’s arm, as if to steady herself, and turned back to Fawkes.
“Daeran tells me he’s seen the carnage for himself, but it was you who first stumbled upon it. Pray tell us, if you please, what do you make of it? Spare no detail, for this is a matter of grave importance.”
Grave indeed, Hunter thought to himself, but said nothing. Apparently, he had put his foot in his mouth enough for one day.
Fawkes started describing the grisly scene back at the clearing in all its blood-curdling glory, with Daeran occasionally piping in to agree or add some small detail. Vanchik was listening with a progressively deepening scowl. The rest of the folken looked shocked and speechless–save for Hallara, of course. Hallara looked unshaken and calm, but the intensity in her stare told another story altogether.
“… so I opted to let the bodies lay undisturbed,” Fawkes concluded. “It was only right to let you see them with your own eyes, draw your own conclusions.”
“And you say neither man nor beast could have done the killing, correct?” asked Vanchik, whose thick gray brows were so furrowed Hunter could hardly see his eyes.
Fawkes shook her head emphatically, and Daeran agreed.
“No natural beast I know of could have done such an evil thing,” the watchman said, “and certainly no man.”
“And yet, there was… intelligence behind its acts,” added Fawkes, as if pondering over every single one of the words she spoke, choosing them with care. “Maliciousness. A propensity for mysticism and the eldritch mysteries, even.”
“I will say it again,” Vanchik said. “As I see it, it could only be the Ghost Nation.”
“Skin-witches,” Daeran agreed. “They cajole vile beings best left unnamed; they whisper dark secrets better left forgotten. I know it.”
In any other case, Hunter would find all this doom and gloom a bit too on the nose. He had seen the slaughter for himself, however. He had smelled the tang of spilled blood wafting from the soil beneath his feet. He had felt his stomach clench and his heart skip a beat at the sight of torn limbs strewn around like discarded toys.
Game or no game, Elderpyre felt real.
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Sometimes too real.
“Maybe Tego is right,” said one of the folken quietly. “Maybe the ancestors are angry at us. Maybe it’s the–”
“Tego is a fool, and so are you for listening to him, sirrah” Vanchik exploded, shutting the other man up mid-sentence.
“Whatever the truth may be,” the medicine woman piped in, restoring order, “the forest has become dangerous. Spread the word. Until we know more, no folken are to venture beyond the treeline.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, but Hallara wasn’t done yet.
“You, however, are not folken,” she turned to Fawkes. “You are not bound by our rules. In fact, I considered your request, Fawkes of the Lodge, and I have decided to grant it. You may visit the Ghostbarrows. If you will, however, there is a service I would like you to perform.”
For a moment, the two women stared at each other, Fawkes’s iron-gray gaze clashing with Hallara’s jade-green. There was some kind of unspoken exchange there, that much was obvious, though Hunter couldn’t begin to guess what it was about.
“Very well,” Fawkes said finally. “Make your ask.”
“You hear it too, do you?” said the old woman. “The whispering.”
“Not always. But I have, yes.”
“There is something brewing over at the Ghostbarrows. What is it, I cannot say. But I do not believe in coincidences, Fawkes of the Lodge, of the Foreign West.”
“Make your ask, anointed one.”
“The whispering. Find out what it is. Silence it, if you can. It can be nothing good.”
“For the silencing, I make no promise,” said Fawkes. “But for the first part, I do. I will come back and tell you all I may unearth. Is this acceptable, Hallara of Clan Besk, of the Hawk Nation, of the Brennai?”
Hallara nodded, then beckoned at Daeran, who brought her a small case made of ornate wood and bone. She opened the lid and pulled out what looked like an old silk scarf. It was thin and threadbare, but its crimson color stood like a beacon among the muted browns and tans of the folken.
“An old offering of grace, given to us by those who have since departed,” Hallara said as she offered it to Fawkes. “One of our holiest relics, passed down from one medicine woman to the next for generations. Show it to them, in case you meet them. They will remember its significance. It should earn you some good will.”
Fawkes nodded, took the scarf, and hid it in the sleeve of her coat.
“Take care of it, woman,” said Vanchik, frowning. “And bring it back to us once your business at the Ghostbarrows is concluded. It has no place in the hands of a foreigner.”
Fawkes, her eyes still locked with the medicine woman’s, paid no attention to him.
“May the ancestors light your path, then,” Daeran said, his own furrowed brow matching the alderman’s. “May you have their guidance and protection, outlander, because you will surely need it.”
***
“So, that went well” said Hunter as the two of them left the longhouse and headed for their tent.
“Well enough.” Fawkes said, “save that indiscretion of yours.”
“What indiscretion? What did I do this time?”
The swordswoman studied him for a moment.
“Claiming to be of the Lodge is no laughing matter, lad.”
“I just repeated what you said,” Hunter shrugged. “To get them to believe I’m with you. You know, add credibility to your story.”
To that, Fawkes said nothing. Her sneer and sigh were answer enough.
“Always the same story,” she said, talking more to herself than to Hunter. “First comes smiles, then comes lies. Last is gunfire.”
“What?” Hunter cocked his ears. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s an old adage of the Lodge. Why?”
“I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”
Fawkes studied him for a moment.
“No,” she concluded. “You must be mistaken.”
They were somewhere near the center of the encampment when something caught Hunter’s attention. It was something like a totem pole, carved and etched and decorated with animal motifs.
“Give me a moment,” he told Fawkes. “I want to check something out.”
She opened her mouth to say something, a fat lot of good that would do, but change her mind. Hunter was already halfway there anyway.
He walked over to the pole, studied it for a moment, then reached out and touched its weathered surface with his fingertips.
As he had suspected, a dialogue window popped up before him.
“Yes," he willed, and was filled with that familiar feeling of something tugging at his core and shifting inside him. The connection he had felt to the previous Place of Power he’d found waned and was replaced with a link to the totem pole.
Good, a checkpoint. He didn’t plan to kick the bucket again. Once was one time too many. If he did, however, he’d rather not have to walk all the way back from the previous place of power he’d found, the one at the wayshrine behind the log cabin.
Fawkes watched with a raised eyebrow, looking puzzled. For the umpteenth time, Hunter wondered how much she knew about Skills and Abilities and Attributes and notifications and all that jazz. Were these things common knowledge in Elderpyre, or did he have access to them because he was a transient?
Hunter had a strong suspicion that the truth was closer to the latter.
“More of your transient craftiness?” Fawkes asked.
“Something like that, yes.”
“Tell me, lad” she shook her head, “do you want the folken to take out all their fear and superstition on you? Because they will, if they find out.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll be more careful.”
“I should hope so,” she grumbled as she started walking towards their tent again. “Or we’ll both end up on the wrong side of their hospitality.”