1.5 A Layesey Game Of Fetch

Silven rose to the melodic whistling of his clock on a beautiful sunny day. After his retreat down the forest road away from his pursuers, he had chanced upon a broad meadow and spotted a tumbledown old barn a mere league from the limit of the trees. Finding only a straw mattress and this magical timing device for company, he had at once collapsed into his exhaustion and gloomy thoughts. He could have slept for a thousand years, but he tried to keep it sensible and only set the dial on the clock’s back for eighty-six hours. He had to attempt to make some sense of all that had happened at some point, after all.

The chunk of bread he found by the road had done wonders, but the proper rest seemed to have fixed his twisted ankle and broken arm too. He would even go so far as to say he felt well rested.

“Excuse me,” said a polite little mouse on top of the rotting haystack in the corner. Silven barely blinked an eye. He had awoke with a clarity of purpose he had never experienced before. He had made up his mind, and nothing could stop him.

“Yes?” he replied. The mouse, he observed, was wearing another one of those tiny colourful hats he had seen in the dungeon.

“Just a couple of points on the agenda today.” The rodent cleared its tiny throat with a squeak. “First of all, it’s time to get stronger. You’ve completed your first quest!”

Silven laughed bitterly. “I’ve ran away from a mess I created with my own grimy feet. Walking into that village cost lives. Hardly a happy end to your so-called quest.”

The mouse shook its whiskers. “Powerlessly watching them suffer surely created a desire to exact revenge on those that ensnared you. It’s practically a positive experience. Now, level up!”

Silven saw red. “Did you say positive? It’s scarred me for life!” He pressed a finger to his temple and felt a warm glow drift across his mind.

“Intellect. You’ll need that,” nodded the mouse.

“Why, you!” yelled Silven, diving across the straw to crush the critter in one fist. It easily scampered away into the sunlight pooling between two planks, gave him a very disapproving sigh, and stomped off.

“And the second point...” sang a powerful voice on the wind. “You really need to stop.... cutting people off.... The board is set.... pieces in motion..... the Three Toes Tavern.... remember?”

“Oh, I remember!” retorted Silven as he stormed out of the ruin and shook a fist at the air. “But I’m not drinking my days away with mysterious strangers when I can rebuild what I have destroyed. I’m off to Gigglewick. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

It turned out there was a surprising amount of Gigglewick left. In the half-week of Silven’s slumber, the survivors of the massacre had pulled together to drag their belongings from the rubble of their homes and bury their dead on the edge of the clearing. Silven dropped to his knees before the wooden marker bearing the name Folborn and wept. The villagers eyed him suspiciously from their makeshift camp in the street. Finally, the butcher approached and shoved him hard in the shoulder. “You appear one minute, and whole town turns to dust the next.” Silven only nodded glumly, and the moustachioed man jerked his meaty forehead at the churned hoofprints in the road. “You with them?” A shake of the head. The butcher sighed and hauled the grieving stranger to his feet. “Well, I don’t know what part you play in all this. Turns out they were looking for a girl. They never found her. Know Sylvia?” Silven hesitated and shook his head again. It was a matter of survival. The resident grunted. “Well, I’ll believe you. If you’re here, you can help.” He placed a tentative hand on Silven’s aching shoulder. He pointed up a narrow grassed path leading up between two charred cottages. “Up on that hill lies Layesey Farm. Luckily, the dark knights missed it on their sortie. My people are hungry. Starvation will surely set in soon. Please, help with the crop while we point and rummage through the remains.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The butcher turned away and sauntered off to his family. “Hurry, I’ve already missed breakfast!” wailed a pale teenager by his side. Silven sighed and started up the path, dozens of eager eyes watching him go. If he was truly here to help, he would have to do it their way.

At the top of the ascent, Silven breathed a sigh of relief. A field full of turnips spread out across the plateau, dotted here and there with wheelbarrows and ramshackle tool sheds. Half a dozen or so peasants patrolled the rows of plants, raking at the soil now and then, while just beyond the field, another man stood scribbling on a sheet of parchment. At the very back of the scene, a neat little farmhouse rose beside a neat little yard brimming with clucking hens. If this had been found, the settlement would have been finished. But at least there was still a chance.

Silven weaved through the crops and addressed the supervisor with the clipboard. “Greetings, I’ve come on behalf of the people of Gigglewick.” The weather-beaten man eyed him slowly and returned to his notes. Silven swallowed and spoke more clearly. “As I’m sure you know, the village has been attacked and its food stores destroyed...”

The farmer looked up again, his face expressionless. “I know! Dreadful business. But it ain’t no turnip garden round here either, mate.”

Silven gestured around him. “Actually, it is.”

The man blinked. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that, with all these pesky weeds.” Silven studied the plants. The crop was immaculate. “Ash, how’s the crop?” called the supervisor.

“Drownin’ in nettles, boss!” replied the man named Ash as he picked at the ground on his knees.

“And young Billy, have we still got those thistles?”

“Hard to tell; I’ll have to excavate further,” whined the boy, waist deep in a mound of orange pulp.

The supervisor’s face turned to a grimace of concern. “We have our share of woes, you know. But if you want to help out, I’ll spare a few slim pickin’s for our friends below.”

“Done,” snapped Silven. He pulled up his threadbare trousers to his stomach, rolled up his tattered sleeves, and picked up a hoe by his side. “What would you like me to do?” He suddenly became aware of the entire farm crew gathering around to regard him silently.

The supervisor stepped forward. “Well, you could gather the harvest, please.” He turned to his team. “Full weed sweep, now! I know we’ll find them somewhere.”

Silven stared as the men slunk off. He stared as they polished the vegetables. He stared as they rinsed the leaves. He stared as they oiled the wheels of the barrows. And the men stared as Silven got to work.

The sun was setting as Silven hauled his final sack of neeps to the farmyard. Sweat dripped from every pore of his body, his hands were raw with blisters, and his trousers had tore straight through at the knees. But the harvest was in. The supervisor still stood rooted to his spot with his clipboard. He smiled for the first time. “Nice work. We couldn’t have done it without you, not with all these weeds.”

“How many did you find?” panted Silven.

The supervisor coughed. “We’ll find tonnes tomorrow. Anyhow, I owe the people of Gigglewick a debt of gratitude for sending you. Here’s your reward.” He plopped a turnip into Silven’s arms and yawned. “Busy day, today. Off to bed.” And away he went.

Silven looked at the turnip, disgusted. That teenage brat wasn’t getting a single forkful. He’d make sure of it.

Down the hill, the turnip feast commenced in full swing. When Silven returned, he had hardly the nerve to uncover his meagre offering. Yet, a cheer of pure joy had risen from the survivors as they sprung to their campfires and pots. Silven gasped as he watched the banquet unfold on a blanket by the stables. There was a delicate turnip soup, followed by a hearty turnip stew with smooth turnip mash, and dense turnip cake to finish. The butcher, who had finally introduced himself as Banc, patted his good shoulder and explained. “MM turnips. Layperson for ‘magically modified’. This should see us through until we rebuild.”

Silven could hardly believe his eyes. “This is all just that one turnip?”

Banc chuckled. “Only eight farms in Oldeburgh. Any more would just be boring. And not many travellers coming through to gather them. Have to be worth getting your hands on when you can.” A sudden distant howl turned heads towards the foreboding forest. “And speaking of dogs,” pressed Banc, “You don’t fancy another game of fetch, do yer?”