Chapter Sixteen - Footsteps

Thunk.

Ted straightened, a little creakily, as two neatly divided chunks of wood fell into the dirt either side of his block, clattering onto the frostbit ground. He rubbed at his back, grimacing, and set the axe head down a moment, wiping at his sweating forehead with a dirty cloth. The sun was setting in the west, gleaming hot as embers on the frothing Swiftwater, and the night-frost was already on the air. He’d be shivering, if he wasn’t so exhausted.

‘You going to be done before midnight?’

He glanced up at the door of the cottage to find Werla’s pale face looking back at him. She was smiling, and her dimples were showing.

‘Maybe I like it better out here.’ he told her, hiding his smile. ‘Not as many gnats.’

‘This gnat has made you stew.’ she told him, grinning. ‘So get in here before I pour it in the river.’

She disappeared back inside, closing the door, and he stood for a moment, watching the space that she left behind. Then he lifted the axe again, set another chunk of wood on the block, and went on with his work.

The sun was all but gone, when he was finished, and the gloom had crept in around the low walls of the cottage in formless black mist. The Swiftwater whispered as he stacked the wood in the store under the eaves, and, on the far bank, the trees shifted restlessly. He dabbed at his forehead again, stretching his creaking back, and set a few of the smaller logs under his arm, heading for the door.

‘Took your time.’

Werla glanced up from the hearth as he closed it behind him, stirring a steaming pot with a wooden spoon the colour of an old brass pot.

‘Trying to avoid dinner.’ Ted told her, depositing the logs by the fire. ‘Not sure I can stomach another one of your stews.’

‘Not surprised. I’ve been poisoning yours for weeks.’

Ted closed his eyes, rubbing at his back and clenching his jaw. He felt Werla beside him then, wrapping her arms around him, reaching up to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. He opened his eyes, looking down at her fondly. She was beginning to show, and the faint curve of her belly pressed against his thigh gently. He put his hand on her navel, smiling.

‘Sore?’ she asked.

‘Sore.’ he agreed.

‘You’re getting old, old man.’ she told him, smiling.

‘I’ve been old since you were at your mother’s teat.’ he replied, grimacing again. He looked at the door. ‘Just got to check the wheel before dinner. Keep it warm for me?’

She kissed him again instead of answering, and he stood staring at her a moment longer, smiling in spite of himself, then made for the door.

Outside, the last of the sun had bled behind the horizon, and only a few stray tendrils of dusk-light streaked the darkening sky. It was quiet, and even the trees on the far bank had stopped rustling. Just the steady whisper of the Swiftwater, the scratch-ache groan of the mill-wheel. Quieter than usual, even. Ted had never been fond of quiet. Not since the rebellion, anyway. Back then, quiet meant danger. Meant someone didn’t want to be heard. That had been the worst thing, during the siege. The quiet. The waiting. Waiting for them Northmen to come knocking. To send some more rocks over the walls. Anything at all, really. Anything to make you forget the hunger.

But that was ancient history, now. Almost as old as he felt. A different life. So he made his way unperturbed around the side of the cottage, one hand on the wall, too familiar to be slowed by the dark. The door creaked beneath his fingers, and the keys jangled softly as he drew them from around his neck. A twist, a click, and the door fell open. The air was cool and dry inside the room beyond, hemmed in by the shifting shape of the mill-wheel, the whispering of the frothing water. It was dark, darker even than outside, but Ted didn’t need a light. He moved about the room with soft ease, brushing each of the levers in turn, checking, clicking, smiling to himself. The smell of the grain stores filled his nose, thick and dry as sawdust. Ted, the Miller. Wondered what his father would say, to see him now. Used to say his son would end up dead before he made forty. But Da had beaten him to it, in the end, and if he was watching, he gave no sign, so Ted went on with his work.

There was no need for hurry. Not really. Through the doorway, he could see the dusk creeping across the grass, thickening like black cream. A few more minutes and there would be no light but the moon, if the clouds felt generous. But Werla wasn’t going anywhere, and dinner would be waiting. He savoured the thought as he finished his work. The levers groaned, the gears clicked. All was as he had left it. It always was, but he always checked. He had had rituals before, too. Shield straps on his forearm. Sword belt at his waist. Checking, tightening. Readying. Old habits die hard, if you survive long enough to keep them.

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Outside again, the river water shimmered blackly, and over it, the dark stones of the old bridge were full of shadows. He couldn’t make out the trees on the far bank, as he made his way down to the water’s edge. Touched the frigid water with one pale finger. There it was again. That quiet. He should be used to it, by now, but it still made him nervous. Still filled him with that raw dread it had, all those years ago. He scratched at the scar on his neck, frowning, and walked a few steps out over the bridge. The stones were hard and wet underfoot, and the noise of the river beneath filled his ear with murmurs. The moon blinked overhead as he stared out towards the half-visible outline of the tree-line. Watching the shadows shifting through the boughs. For a moment, he was back in the white stones, all those years ago. Waiting for Northmen to come over the walls. Waiting all the while till the new King’s men in their black masks started filling his friends with dagger holes, instead.

He frowned at himself, shivering. He’d let Derin’s boy and his nervous friend get to him. He was too old to be jumping at his own shadow. He turned his shoulder on the trees, eyeing the flicker of firelight from the cottage eagerly.

Then he stopped. Quiet is a fickle thing. Not to be trusted, except in its breaking. Something had stirred behind him in the dark, something soft and formless. He turned back to the far side of the river, squinting into the gloom. Overhead, the clouds had shifted over the moon again, and, without a light, he could barely see the end of the bridge. Didn’t matter, though. Something had moved. He knew it. He stared at the black absence where he knew the trees were waiting, and somewhere in the darkness, they stared back. The Swiftwater murmured, and the branches creaked softly.

But nothing else stirred. Ted scowled at himself. He’d always had sharp ears. Maybe that’s why he was still alive to be afraid of the dark. He turned again, and began to walk back over the old bridge, scratching at his scarred neck irritably.

He froze again, and his hand fell from his neck like a weighted stone. He turned back to the north. The moon blinked down through shredded cloud, but he didn’t need it. There was something else, out there, in the trees. Something flickering. A cold, familiar weight settled in his gut, and the whispers of the Swiftwater filled his ears with silence. A torch? The back of his neck tingled.

‘Who goes there?’ He called.

No response. Another light had joined the first, blinking through the boughs. A flicker. Then another. And this time Ted was watching. This time he saw the arm that held it, wrapped in shadow. This time he caught the flash of eyes in the gloom. The leer of a face, frozen in the black gleam of the flames.

He was back over the bridge before he realised he was moving. The cottage glittered, full of warmth and firelight, and he didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He stopped for a moment at the threshold, lifting the axe from its place beside the wall, then went inside, closing the door behind him.

‘Who were you talking to?’

Ted blinked, still facing the closed door. He drew the bolt home quietly, taking a deep breath, and gave Werla a smile.

‘Myself. Where else would I get any good conversation ‘round here?’

‘Oh ha ha.’ She grinned at him, then frowned. ‘And why have you got that axe?’

‘Damp out. Didn’t want it rusting.’ he said, setting it by the door. ‘Dinner ready?’

‘Almost.’ Werla replied, turning back to her pots. Ted took a breath, then lowered himself slowly into a chair beside the hearth. The one facing the door. The stew-pot bubbled. Outside, the Swiftwater whispered. Everything was as he left it.

‘What’s eating you, old man?’

He blinked, and found her looking at him again. Big doe eyes, soft as silk. He had been listening. Listening to the river outside the door. To the trees rustling at the water’s edge. For footsteps on the bridge-stones. Footsteps that hadn’t come. He took a deep breath.

‘Just tired.’

‘You’re always tired.’ she told him. ‘You need to eat more.’

Ted didn’t reply. His eyes drifted back to the door, and the bubbling of the pot beat against his ears like thunder.

‘Do you remember when we met?’ he asked suddenly, not looking up. ‘On the Makersday?’

‘Of course I do.’ Werla glanced up from her cooking, and he could feel her smiling. ‘But I always like the way you tell it.’

The scar on his neck tingled, and he scratched at it, gnawing at the raw skin.

‘Still remember when I saw you.’ he said softly, eyes still fixed distantly on the door. ‘Young. Beautiful. Had a flower behind your ear. No idea what got hold of me, trying my luck speaking to you. Never was good with words. But you smiled at me. Dimples and all. Smiled like I was the only man in the world. Weren’t a blade this side of the Teeth that could cut me free of you, after that.’

He fell quiet again, and the silence floated back in over the sounds of the cottage, picking at his gut like ice. Outside, the river whispered.

‘Why did you?’

‘Why did I what?’

‘Talk to me.’ she replied. He looked up, then, and met her eye. He’d always loved her eyes.

‘Never thought I’d be married, when I came back home.’ he said softly, looking away again. ‘Didn’t seem right, somehow, after all that blood. All the water in the world wouldn’t wash it clean, so what was the use in trying, I thought. Figured there’d be some other war to fight, some other bastard to pay for my supper. Couldn’t be any worse than the one who used to.’

He was in a city. White stone stained with blood. Black masks swollen from the rocks. The sky had caught fire.

‘You don’t talk about it, very much.’

He blinked, and he was in his cottage again. Beside the murmuring hearth. The stew-pot was bubbling over the fire, and his wife was watching him, frowning.

‘Sometimes… Sometimes I reckon it’s best not to.’ he said after a while. ‘Feels like a dream, now. I saw things, back then… Well, I saw things I couldn’t make sense of. Not then or now. Things that’d made a man mad from seeing them. Things’d make you believe…’

He paused. The door didn’t move.

‘All that killing. All that death. It don’t belong here. Poison always gets in, if you let it. But I reckon a man gets to choose how he feels, when he learns how. You can’t choose how you come into this world. But you can choose how you go out. And I’m long past being angry, anymore.’

Her hands were on his shoulders, and her lips pressed against his cheek. He smiled, wrapping her hands in his for a moment. Then she turned back to her pot, and he was waiting again. The stew-pot bubbled. The Swiftwater whispered. Boot-heels clicked on the stones. He stood up quietly, lifting the axe from its place beside the door, and settled back into his seat, laying it across his knees. The girl with the flower behind her ear, eyes full of sunlight. Smiling at him.

‘What was that?’ Werla asked idly, looking up from her work.

‘Nothing.’ he told her.