Chapter I: The Village

The huge bonfire bathed the village green in a demonic glare. In front of it, flanked by Carver’s banners depicting the snarling goat’s head over crossed axes, his herald waited. The tall, wizened man stood behind a low table roughly cobbled together from three barrels and some boards Dara had been forced to provide. To the side, where the horses and carts waited, Carver’s men had erected some tents, their black pennants fluttering and cracking under the low-hanging, leaden clouds.

Moving around the green, like armored herding dogs, was a dozen black-and-bronze clad footmen, their serrated axes and spiked maces at the ready to punish and brutalize. They made sure the villagers stood, sorted by families, in a neat queue.

Rhys looked around, uneasy. Apart from the very young and very old, the whole populace of the village was present and the look of barely concealed terror was everywhere. Mirrin, his youngest sister, clutched his hand, her bright blue eyes darting this way and that, curiously taking in the armed men. She, along with the other younglings, seemed untouched by the cloud of gloom hanging over the village green. She had turned twelve yesterday and it was her first Tithing. Rhys dearly wished she would have stayed home with Gran like the previous years.

The Tithing, according to Gran’s stories, once was cause for celebration, a revel when the lord came to visit. Bards would sing, there were games of skill and chance and even festive food like pies and honeycombs. But that was when Gran herself had been young. Ever since Rhys could remember Carver ruled over these lands and there was little in the way of merriment. Everyone had to work, blisteringly so, to pay the tithes Carver demanded. He took so much, on some days there wasn’t enough food for everyone. His father Padec and his four older brothers would eat first, then his mother and two older sisters, then Mirrin and finally Rhys, strictly in order of usefulness. He couldn’t do the hard farm work, he couldn’t be married off like his beautiful sisters so he got the scraps.

“Stop gawping already and take this,” his father snarled, slapping the leashes for the two calves into his hands. They were well fed and strong, in contrast to Rhys. He was a lanky, stick-thin young man. Pale skin, neck-length hair of indeterminate color and slender, almost girlish hands. In comparison to Delf, Rowlf, Ulf and Gorf, he seemed like an alien. They were as pale as he was but they boasted broad shoulders and a surprising amount of mass. But then they didn’t become ill as often as he did. Gran and Ilva, the former village cleric, had tended to him. That somehow had soured his father on him and he only trusted Rhys to herd the chickens and muck out the stables. He spent most time with his old, feeble Gran, listening to her stories until his father would inevitably barge in, complain that Gran would put foolishness into Rhys’ head and drag him off to another menial task none of his brothers bothered to do.

A soft nudge tore Rhys from his thoughts. Celeste, the current village cleric, smiled at him. Rhys cast down his eyes respectfully.

“Hello, Mother. How are you this fine day?”

Mirrin didn’t bother with that much formality and hugged the cleric exuberantly. “Hey Aunt Celeste! Have you seen all the knights? I wonder if I can hold one of their swords!”

“Shh, just look, little minx.” Celeste cast a gaze to the closest pack of three. They nudged each other and leered. “How are you, Rhys?” She was a tall, young woman, maybe twenty-five. Rhys tried not to stare as he raised his gaze. Under her simple white robes, the curves of her breasts beckoned. Her eyes, like those of a doe, suited her long, brunette mane perfectly. Her hair was kept away from her face by a simple leather band with a copper crest. The only thing flashy about her was the feathered holy symbol of Mercy, the village’s patron deity. It was made from solid gold and caught the flickering light of the fire.

“I wish they would leave a little more food for everyone,” Rhys muttered, so that only Mirrin and Celeste could hear over the booming voice of the herald enumerating Jesper Billings’ tithe contribution. “Don’t they realize they are slowly starving us to death? The harvest was bad enough this year and they are still taking three quarters of everything!”

Padec’s hand scuffed the back of Rhys’ head. “Shut up boy. That kind of talk only gets you hurt.” Rhys recoiled from the barely controlled fury in his old man’s eyes.

A few spots behind them, a heated argument erupted. A moment later, there was the wet, horrible sound of a mace hitting flesh. Celeste paled, squeezed Rhys’ shoulder and darted away. He could hear her stern voice cut into the moans and laughter.

“That foolish gal will get herself killed sooner than later,” Padec growled.

“She’s the only one in this village to dare stand up to Carver’s brutes,” Rhys hissed back. “We all could use her as an example. Instead we grovel and-”

The fist came without warning. Padec had been called into Carver’s pikemen regiment twice, the last time ten years ago, and ceaseless work on the farm meant that he still was as strong at fifty as some lesser men twenty years younger. Rhys folded double, clutching his stomach, retching. Padec grabbed his son’s hair, cranked his head upwards and snarled, “If I hear any words from you until we are back home on the farm, I swear I’ll grab an axe and kill you myself. Do you understand?”

Rhys could only grunt.

“Your foolish talk will get all of us killed. It’s bad enough that Gran’s sister Ursa got burned as a witch for hexing Carver’s old herald. They have their eyes on us!”

Rhys coughed helplessly, clutching at his stomach. “By Desire’s shrunken tits! Pull yourself together boy!” Padec hauled Rhys upright and shoved him. He stumbled past his snickering brothers. Mirrin shot him a look of sympathy.

There now was a commotion in front of them too. Rhys saw Old Man Harrol arguing with the herald. Carver’s man wore a black robe with bronze seams and a wide collar, like some ceremonial armor adorning his chest. A long, tapering beard was tucked into his belt and several daggers and wands hung at his waist. They both pointed at two sacks on the table. The herald was nearing the end of his patience. He cut off Harrol’s tirade with a harsh gesture then called for a footman. Harrol paled and stepped away from the table. Suddenly it was deathly quiet, save for the occasional cawing of a crow and the roar of the bonfire.

“We demanded only two sacks of grain from you this year, on account of your failing health. These are not sacks of grain,” the herald proclaimed angrily. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slashed at the first sack. The seam opened, revealing a small trickle of grain.

“I told ye, I pay me dues!” Harrol protested.

“Do you think us fools?” the herald snarled. He dug his hand into the sack and yanked. A rush of stone fillings rattled onto the table. “The sacks were too heavy to begin with, the texture was all wrong and this proves beyond a doubt that you tried to weasel your way out of your duty to your rightful lord.”

The footman stepped behind him. Harrol opened his mouth to protest. Instead of words, a horrible jet of blood erupted from his lips at the same time as a gleaming wedge of steel burst from his ribs. The footman grunted, placed his boot on Harrol’s lower back and withdrew his sword. Gurgling helplessly, the old man sagged to the floor like a wet sack in a terrible, widening pool of blood. The footman changed the grip on his sword and rammed the blood-smeared blade into Harrol’s eye, ending his feeble struggle.

Celeste knelt down next to the crumpled, discarded body. She fixed the herald with a grim stare.

“You know the rules, cleric,” the herald boomed. “‘Those who deceive His Lordship, betray His Lordship or work with the enemies of His Lordship shall not be left alive.’” He motioned for another guard. “Burn the wretch.”

“You even deny him a proper burial?” Celeste rose, now openly challenging the robed man.

“We shall not poison this earth with a deceiver’s corpse,” he snarled. “Spare your pity for the living.”

With balled fists and murder in her eyes, Celeste rushed past the second footman. Together, the black-armored men hauled Harrol’s body to the bonfire and unceremoniously dumped him into the flames. A moment later, the stench of burning flesh wafted from the blaze. Rhys, who had Mirrin pressed against his body, fought to keep his stomach down.

“Farmer Padec! You are next!”

Padec righted his faded tabard, awarded for his service as a pikeman, brushed his hair out of his face and strutted forward, his wife Mara on his arm. The four bigger brothers, hauling sacks of grain and packs of cured meat, came next. His older sisters Missy and Lissy, wearing their best dresses, guided two pristine, white sheep. Rhys couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances they cast around as they marched towards the table. Mirrin had claimed the leashes for the calves during his spat with Padec and he took them from her.

“Stay behind me, you hear?” he whispered. Mirrin, wide-eyed, nodded. Her eyes went to the large, wet bloodstain where Harrol had been slaughtered.

They lined up in front of the herald. A huge book, filled with neat rows of runes and numbers, was on the table and a stylus hovered over it.

The herald quickly counted. “One more than last year. Who is she?”

Padec made a deep bow, almost slamming his nose into the table. “Me youngest lass, milord. Mirrin, milord. Just turned twelve.”

“Old enough to be registered. Very well.” The herald made a gesture and the stylus moved, scratching along the parchment.

Rhys saw Mara clutch Padec’s arm in a death grip, pale under her patched-up bonnet.

“Now, for the tithe,” the herald began.

Padec’s gaze flicked to the bloodstain and he paled. “There will be no issues, milord. Twelve sacks of grain, eight packs of cured meat, two sheep and two calves, milord. Just like milord has asked us to bring last year.”

The herald fingered the sacks and inspected the packs, sniffing, probing with his beringed fingers. Only then did the stylus move, adding more runes to the page. He then moved around the table, with quick and deft motions he checked the calves and the sheep. The herald seemed pleased.

“This will do. Now that you have another pair of able hands, let us increase the tithe to fifteen sacks of grain and nine packs of cured meat, along with two more calves and sheep next year.”

The warrior who had killed Old Man Harrol joined the herald. His armor showed more bronze than the others and his helmet was a snarling demon face. His right hand never strayed far from the hilt of his blade. He looked over Padec’s family then removed his helmet. His narrow, angular face, bisected by a hawkish nose, was framed by limp strands of long, blond hair. Rhys recoiled from his stare. Eyes like twin pools of darkness flicked his way, causing a dismissive snarl before settling on Mirrin.

“Herald. I think we will invite this beautiful dove to the castle for a day or two,” the blond man said, his voice an oily drawl. “Make it happen.”

“Of course, Commander Faedal.” The herald reached out a hand. Mirrin recoiled.

Padec’s face fell. For a heartbeat, Rhys thought he saw a spark of revolt but it vanished before he was certain he’d actually seen it.

“I don’t want to,” Mirrin said, ducking behind Rhys.

“You have been chosen to visit Lord Carver’s keep. You will come,” the herald said.

Mirrin looked around. The Commander’s hand had closed around the hilt of his sword. “Your behavior will reflect upon your family,” the blonde man said sternly. “Come quietly and no one has to get hurt.” He gestured with his left hand. His black gauntlet had long, vicious spikes on the knuckles. Blood had spattered onto the metal, up to the elbow.

Her eyes darted towards Harrol’s bloodstain again. Slowly, hesitantly, she released Rhys’ hand. Head held high, she took a few tentative steps towards the commander, who smiled beatifically. He extended his bloodied gauntlet. Shivering, Mirrin placed her hand in his.

Behind him, Rhys heard a screeching, inhuman sound. He turned to watch, only to find his mother, clawing at her face and howling like a banshee. Her mouth moved, releasing that haunting, eerie cry. His sisters crossed their hands over their breasts, invoking Mercy’s guarding wings, their faces expressionless masks.

They’ve been there before, Rhys realized. Mirrin, her hand a tiny fleck of white in the commander’s grasp, craned her neck to see what was happening, a look of concern on her face.

You should worry more about yourself, little one, Rhys thought, balling his fists. The nails broke the skin, drawing blood.

“Innkeep Dara! You are next!”

A horse-drawn ladder wagon, filled with six large casks of ale and barrels of wine, rolled forward, nearly bowling over Rhys. When he managed to run around it, Mirrin and the commander were gone.

The women huddled in a corner, hugging each other, sobbing. Padec pulled a dented stein off a wall hook and poured himself ale from a long-necked, swan-like pitcher. Elven-made, his father had boasted. Taken off some bandits in Carver’s service. Rhys fought to keep the bile from his mouth as he watched his father flop down in his usual place at the head of the rough-hewn wooden table.

Disgusted at the old man’s inaction, Rhys left the room, going into the small chamber he shared with his brothers. To his surprise, only Delf was there, trying to put a new leather strap onto his work shoe. The others probably were at the inn, trying to get under Dara’s skirts. He slammed the door.

“Fine brothers you are,” Rhys snapped, falling onto the stinking straw pellet in the room’s corner. “No one even barked when that Faedal dragged away Mirrin. She is your fucking sister too!”

“Shut up,” Delf grumbled. “At least she makes herself useful now, amusing the lordships.”

“She is too young!”

Delf shrugged. “Old enough to get fucked, I reckon. And it’s not like you started a fight either.”

Rhys thumped the naked earth which made up the floor of the room. “As if I had a chance against an armored fighter. But you are four, and you are tough-”

“Shut your bloody hole!” Delf snapped, tossing the heavy wooden sole Rhys’ way. “Don’t ya think we aren’t sick about how them black ones stomp around, being all high and mighty?” The missile missed Rhys’ head, hitting his shoulder with a vicious crack and bounced off the wall behind him.

“Now that we’ve given them most of our grain, we barely have anything left for the next seeding, let alone making bread,” Rhys said.

“I bloody well ken,” Delf growled. “That’s why you will get Mirrin when she gets back and look around for wild rye and wheat like always. Maybe Mis and Lis can earn some coin for when the trader come through but by now no one wants their rancid snatches no more.” Delf scratched his balls.

“By now the whole village sends the little ones to forage. How are we to find anything?”

“Not my fucking problem. Get the stuff somehow.”

Rhys gently fingered his shoulder. Where the heavy piece of wood had struck him, the skin was bruised an angry purple and moving the arm hurt. “Not with one arm I don’t,” he growled, tossing the sole back at his brother. Fuming, Rhys left the room and climbed into what once was a hay loft. Now Gran lived here. The old woman sat in a creaking rocking chair, swathed in a thick coat of blankets. She smoked a disgusting, blackened bone pipe and looked up when he slumped onto the floor next to her.

“Tithing didn’t go well,” she said around the stem, puffing a stinking smoke ring.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Rhys, I’m almost blind but deaf I ain’t. I can hear the wailing and gnashing of teeth up here.” She coughed amicably. Her hand snaked out from under the blankets and patted Rhys’ head. “I wanted to warn little Mirrin but my daughter thought she could get her past that lecher Faedal.”

“That’s why you argued so badly last week,” Rhys muttered.

“Mara can be as stubborn as I am,” Gran said, softly. “I hope Mirrin is as tough as well.”

“I wish I could have done something,” Rhys said. “The whole village simply gawped as Faedal dragged her away. I wish I had muscles like Delf.”

“And Faedal would have cut you down like the beautiful reed you are,” Gran said. “Muscles are not always the solution.”

Rhys snorted bitterly. “What else could I have done? We are not allowed to have bows and it’s a wonder they let us keep the pitchforks and ploughs.”

“Maybe you have our family’s witch blood, Rhys,” Gran muttered. “I know Ursa had it.”

“And what good is that to us now? She’s long dead and she had no children.”

“The witch blood is much older than me or Ursa. It runs through our family since the old times, when Orran the Giant-Killer was beguiled by Hilgrun, giant witch of the Frostspires, and sired her daughters.” She fell silent. “Your breathing is strained. Are you hurt?”

Rhys gnashed his teeth. “Delf threw a shoe at me. Landed a decent hit. I was hoping you had some of that salve Celeste gave you.”

Gran snickered. “Still afraid to see our noble cleric, are you?”

No reply came. Gran smiled, a shockingly lewd grin, displaying her few remaining good teeth. “Oh, now I understand. She must be quite a sight if you lose your voice like that. Upper drawer, the eight-sided tin.”

Rhys fetched the tin and unscrewed the lid. The strong smell of herbs even managed to make a dent in Gran’s perpetual smoke cloud.

“Let Gran help you.” Her hand, quick like a snake, snatched the tin out of his palm.

“Thank you.” Rhys gingerly shrugged out of his threadbare shirt, wincing at the lance of pain his shoulder produced.

“Let’s see,” Gran muttered. Her fingertips moved along the shoulder. Rhys hissed softly as she brushed the bruise.

“Tell him to play nicer next time,” Gran said, dipping her fingers into the fragrant salve. “You’re too delicate to be treated like that.”

“Gran, I’m eighteen. Not eight anymore,” Rhys complained.

“Still too fragile.” Her fingers were soft flutters, spreading the salve over the bruise. “How’s that?”

His skin tingled. A sensation like cool steel being pressed against the skin came next, taking much of the pain with it. Rhys sighed. “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best.”

Gran wiped her fingers on one of the blankets, resealed the tin and handed it to Rhys. “Now you pay me,” she said brightly. “Put the tin back where you found it and get the book please.”

“Aw, Gran, do I have to?”

“Of course you do. I can’t any more.” She pointed at her grey, overcast eyes.

“I’m sure Celeste could-,” Rhys began, storing the tin.

“Oh, she probably can. But she shouldn’t waste her arts on a soon-to-be corpse like me.”

“Gran!” Rhys knelt down in front of the armchair and dislodged a certain floor board. Underneath, in a hollow space, he found the book next to Gran’s stash of smoking herbs and her bottle of spirits. Only he and Mirrin knew about the loose floor board.

“It’s true. I’m not long for this world, my boy. But don’t fret. Once you marry Celeste and make lots of babies, I can leave and sleep peacefully at Mercy’s shapely bosom.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Rhys protested.

Gran tousled his hair. “Got the book yet?”

The book was large and heavy. To protect it from vermin, it was wrapped in another blanket and a certain, unpleasant smell exuded from it. Dead bugs and other critters rustled off the book. He shoved them into the hollow and replaced the floor board.

Off the cloth came and Rhys looked at the cover, awestruck like every time he held the tome in his hands. It was old, no doubt, going by the faded runes on the cover, yet years of delicate handling and the protective sheath had kept some of the luster intact. The golden corners glinted with a warm radiance in the light of Gran’s sputtering oil lamp.

The Tales Of Orran was written on the cover. He knew the runes by heart now.

“All right, Gran. What do you want me to read?”

“I think we all need a bit of cheer right now. How about ‘Orran In The Mead Hall?’”

Rhys blushed. “The one where... ?”

“Yes, the one where Froki the Rogue spikes the elven mead with a love potion and all the elven maids rush to bed them,” Gran said, a wistful smile on her lips.

Rhys gently paged through the book. The thick parchment rustled under his fingers. Every page was a work of art, the margins done to fit the location of a particular incident and a wondrous, colorful picture at the beginning of each chapter. He finally arrived at his destination, shaking his head. On a table, mounted by not one but two lithe elven maids, their auburn tresses like banners in a breeze, was Orran the Warrior. Naked, immensely muscular and on his back, he still held one mead horn in one hand, his famous axe Boneshatter in the other while one of the elves straddled his face, the other his lap. Around them, scattered like leaves in the wind were the other elves, long, slender limbs entangled in twos, threes and fours. Men and women, men and men or women and women, in intricate knots on the floor or wound around marble pillars. Almost invisible in all the naked skin, the curves of breasts and asses and poking cocks was Orran’s friend and nemesis, the wiry rogue Froki, digging under the Elf Queen’s throne for her treasure.

“Cat got your tongue, Rhys?” Gran asked.

“I’m not sure if this is the right chapter, Gran. Not after Mirrin-”

“Hogwash. It’s the right thing. Maybe it will help you sleep better tonight. So... ‘When Orran-’”

Rhys turned the page and placed his finger under the first line, clearing his throat. Slowly, haltingly, he went along the runes. This was the book Gran had used to teach him but he sorely lacked practice. And to add insult to injury, he had never read this far. Some of the runes were new to him.

“When Orran and Froki arrived in Sun-and-Leaf, the Lady of the Court – the Queen? - awaited them. Clad in leaves and gold, her breasts like freshly sprouted buds and her smile like the rising-of-the-sun.”

“It’s ‘dawn,’” Gran helpfully added. “Don’t read it too literally.”

“Gran. You know the story by heart, word for word. Why-?”

“Please, Rhys. Humor your Gran, all right?”

“Oh well,” Rhys sighed. “Orran said ‘Have your bowmen lower their weapons, for we humans bear you no ill will... ‘“

At least for the night, his mind was occupied. The raunchy tale, filled with heaving breasts, sucking mouths and warm, willing holes aching to be stuffed had him think about Celeste. In his dreams, he was Orran and she was one of the elven maids, doing all the things the author of old had put to the page. But as it always does, the next morning came and Rhys, along with his brothers, rose as soon as the first cockerel began to screech. Out in the yard, Padec took Rhys aside. Thanks to the salve, the bruise had receded somewhat but the rough yank hurt nonetheless.

“The lads are taking the animals out to graze. You know what to do,” he snapped, tossing the old, bent pitchfork his way. “And Mercy preserve you if the stable isn’t spotless when you’re done.”

“Yes, father,” Rhys grumbled, trotting into the drafty, narrow stable. The all too familiar stench of warm manure awaited him. Carefully, he poked the butt end of the pitchfork into the corner where the other utensils normally were. There had been too many instances of muck-filled traps ready for him to trip. His poking soon revealed that the spade was gone, as was the large bucket he used to haul the manure to the dung hill across the yard. Rhys sighed. Probably Delf’s idea of a practical joke. He left the stable and scoured the yard, under the hen house and inside the barn but the missing tools remained elusive.

“I can’t believe he makes me shovel shit with my bare hands,” Rhys growled, returning to the stable. He stabbed at the soiled straw, pushing it into a pile with the pitchfork. “I can’t believe we just sit on our hands and bow our heads while Carver’s dogs slowly kill us.” Another stab. Hot anger flared inside him. “I can’t believe no one even raised a finger to save Mirrin!” Stab. “Not even a word of protest!” Stab. “And all I can do is stand here and shovel shit with a ruddy, fucking pitchfork!”

The anger coiled in his gut, turning into a rock-hard knot. Disgusted, Rhys threw the pitchfork. The smell of manure was replaced with the acrid stench of a thunderstorm. Instead of tumbling from his hand and clattering against the rickety wood partition used to shelter the sheep from the cows, the pitchfork flew from his hand like a spear, punching a smoking, head-sized hole into the back of the stable. Rhys stood there, aghast.

“What the-”

Realization set in. Snarling, he waded through the muck and had a look. No doubt. The hole was real. He could feel heat radiate off the jagged edges where the pitchfork had torn through the old, rotten wood like Orran’s fist through a goblin’s face. And looking through it, he could see what remained of the fork, twenty feet away near the radishes. Only about half the shaft remained, a scorched, smoking ruin.

Rhys stumbled from the stable, clutching his shoulder. He must have sprained it when he threw the pitchfork because it throbbed and thumped worse than even after Delf’s shoe had hit him. He looked around frantically. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed the thunderous impact. But now what? He didn’t have any tools left now and the stable wall had a huge hole. This early, Padec would stalk the farm, whipping everyone into a working frenzy. His mother and sisters would spin wool into yarn for sale or weave fabric while his brothers had to do the heavy lifting, ploughing the three fields or tending to the animals. If Padec saw that he loitered around, no tools and with a huge hole in the stable, there would be hell to pay. Rhys cursed. How could that have happened in the first place? The pitchfork wasn’t balanced for throwing at all.

“No time for that,” he muttered to himself. He needed wooden boards, nails, a hammer or mallet and new tools to muck out the goddamn stable – and he needed them before Padec returned. Agitated, Rhys looked around, hoping against hope he could find the missing tools by a sheer stroke of luck. A huge pillar of smoke caught his eye. Of course! The bonfire! If he was lucky, the makeshift table would still be there – unless the guards had already thrown it into the fire. He then could ask Dara for a hammer and a few nails – the inn was close to the village green.

Rhys sprinted from the yard, nearly losing one of his shoes in a pothole. They had been Lissy’s once, the only ones who would fit his slender feet. She had passed them on to him when the heel broke and Delf’s repair with a crudely wedged-in replacement made them hellish to walk in. But given the sorry state of the roads in the village, he’d limp in the shoes rather than not have them at all. Within ten minutes, he arrived at the village green. The bonfire had burned itself out, leaving only a pile of smoldering embers. The tents and banners were gone but the table was still there, kicked over and not close enough to the embers to catch fire. Rhys rejoiced. The boards had only been loosely hammered in place, it took barely any force at all to pull them from the barrels. Most of the nails were also in good shape. He pocketed them, wedged the boards under one arm and made his way to the inn. Even this early, close to sunrise, Dara and her brother Daffyd were busy cleaning up from the day before. Going by the amount of debris Daffyd was chucking out the door, last night’s guests had been especially rowdy.

“Daffyd,” Rhys called. Dara’s brother was a huge, burly redhead, his shaggy hair reaching the midst of his back and his beard was bushy but well-kempt. He tossed two more broken stools onto a sizable pile of debris.

“What’s up, Rhys?”

“It looks like you had a pretty wild night,” Rhys said, nodding towards the pile.

“You know how it is. People are unhappy about the tithes and Carver’s dogs drinking what little we have left didn’t go down too well either. Things went a little crazy. What’s that you got there?”

“The planks from the table. I wondered if I could have them. There’s been a little mishap at our stable.”

“They didn’t burn them this time? What a surprise. Sure, take ‘em. Did one of your cows kick down a rotten board again?”

“Yeah ... something like that. Thank you. You don’t have a hammer to spare, do you?”

“Don’t you have tools?”

Rhys sighed. “I don’t want Padec to notice. He always finds out when someone takes from his toolbox.” He rubbed his lower back.

“Sorry, no can do. As you can see, I have half of the taproom to repair. But maybe you can find something at Old Harrol’s. He’s not gonna use it anymore.” Daffyd looked grim. “A shame. Now I need to find someone else to buy Moonshine from.”

“Not even a warning. Damn savages,” Rhys snarled, earning a cautionary glare from Daffyd. The big man grunted and returned to the inside of the inn. Groaning as his shoulder acted up, Rhys picked up the boards and trotted back to the farm. He hid the wood behind the stable. Since there was no one screaming at him, it seemed Padec either hadn’t returned yet or hadn’t noticed the hole in the wall.