CHAPTER 2.04 – RIAN’S STOCKADE
It’s well past midnight when they emerge from the forest to the remains of a tidy stockade. The similarity in the elements of its construction to the Iron Rams’ boundary serves only to highlight the contrast between the two settlements. Rian fully excised trees in a radius around his wall, leaving nothing to block sightlines into the resultant killing ground. On a scale impressive for one man. An ungodly amount of work, to be certain, but paling in the face of the vista of denuded land surrounding the Rams.
On their arrival at the clearing’s treeline, Hugo had expected some reaction, some dejected response from Rian. Instead, the man was corralling them, urging silent surveillance of the stricken site. He suppresses the urge to question the man, press him on why he isn’t grieving. Or furious. Instead, he’s impressed by Rian’s commitment to security, even in the face of such destruction. The wooden buildings, even an outhouse, have been burned. Hugo’s certain everyone’s attributing the damage to bandits, in part thanks to how poorly the attempt at arson turned out.
Their silence and inaction is grating on his nerves, and clearly on Anuk’s, before Rian straightens up and strides towards the stockade. In his fight to remain still, Hugo had marvelled at Thae and Rian, twinned in their stillness. Supposes that the processes of endless guard duty and hunting wild animals hone some qualities. Wonders, on some level, at the trigger between monitoring and deciding the place was empty. Then again, he checks his own instincts. Knows that, were he casing a house in the city, he’d assume it was occupied. Hates how many times he’s fallen into dangerous assumptions about the simplicity of rural survival.
He’s certain he does hear the slightest disapproving sigh from Rian as they pass through the stockade gate, left open by the intruders. Doubles down on his own ignorance as he realises the threat is from scavengers either human or animal. Decides definitively to shut the fuck up and let the man call their shots. Focuses instead on the damage done.
The rooves on the cottage and outbuilding had been thatched, were thoroughly consumed despite most of the walls remaining intact. He wonders at the strange quality of fire, so merciless and all-encompassing on one area while nibbling like a spoiled child on another, seemingly at random. That said, the majority of the buildings’ frames remain. A testament to Rian’s skill and methodical nature. It’s little surprise how comprehensively the interior of the enclosure was designed to support a life.
The tidy, stone-constructed well at the centre of four garden patches, the frames for airing hides, drying fish or meat, comprise the centre of everything a denizen of the forest might need. All in its place and a place for everything. Hugo realises, in retrospect, that the varieties at the treeline are probably no mistake. He spied apples ripening here and there, and they had spent their uncomfortable time surveilling the gate huddled beneath a pear tree. He imagines with growing certainty the entire circumference of the clearing bearing fruits in sequence with the passing seasons.
As they approach the cottage, Hugo’s nose catches spoiling meat, the ferrous smell of blood. Thinks he spies Thae tensing, weapon postured towards the door. Rian, however, pulls it open, seems unsurprised at the gory mess beyond. A neat hatch has fallen open directly at the threshold, and splashes of blood decorate the shaft below and the surrounding floor. It’s a horrible trap, really. The lid of the box would be indistinguishable when closed, the drop deeper knee level. So, an easy leg break for someone unaware of the danger.
The kicker (or, he thinks, the end of a victim’s ability to kick) lies at the base of the box, a bear trap secured by a short length of chain bolted to the corners. The source of the gore is a booted foot and calf still held in the jaws of the trap. Hugo tries to stop his imagination from filling out the image, a bandit trying to free his leg, broken near the knee and nearly severed at the calf. The strength required to open the great spiked fangs would be impossible to bring to bear (ha!) in a narrow shaft blocked by one’s own meat.
As he tears his eyes away from the grisly scene, again regretting his phrasing, Hugo’s certain that one of the trapped bandit’s colleagues jumped directly to limb removal. He’s uncertain whether the horror of their forced entry spared the homestead some harm or exaggerated the same. Unable to look straight at him, Hugo’s peripheral vision detects Rian inserting a slim length of metal from behind a cabinet at the door into the base of the doorway. A smooth clicking noise indicates a mechanism securing the trapdoor. The man steps over the hatch, however if Hugo reckons correctly this is to avoid the tacky blood spatters rather than distrust of its ability to bear his weight.
Rian, all business to this point, finally seems to process the carnage of his home, exudes a deep sigh. Hugo laughs nervously as the big man turns to them, face bland, rumbling a “Welcome”. Thae looks a little abashed, slides in behind the table in the main room, back straight as if guilty for seeking rest. Anuk, in contrast, is examining the small space as if hunting for clues to the man standing at the door. Who lives in a place like this? Hugo, insight proving to be a curse, tries to act more natural. Curses inwardly as the attempt itself makes him feel artificial, stilted.
He opts to scan the tiny shelf beside Rian’s bed, spies an almanack next to an ancient, dog-eared book somewhere between a herbology guide and a crone’s version of alchemy. He strikes gold on the third book, anomalous in the ordered space devoted to survival. A cheap edition trying very hard to appear otherwise with plenty of gilt, “Of Knightly Tales”. He knows this type of literature rather well, mismatched handfuls of myth combined with flights of fancy, all distilled into characters too chivalric to have ever truly existed. Generally, too, written with such a degree of lust that Hugo wonders whether the book might have provided succour to a lonely man deep in the forest.
As Hugo shunts Thae along the bench and climbs on, Anuk drops from her reverie, focuses on the book he is settling to peruse. He almost laughs as he sees the woman’s tapered brows ascend towards her hairline. Seems that their furious associate knows her way around a bodice ripper? He doesn’t dare meet her eye, concentrating on absorbing himself in the text. The thought of this prose reminds him of the breathless teenage lust in Anuk’s journal. He surely doesn’t need the woman noticing his treacherous thoughts, keeps his expression studious.
Once Anuk’s focus drifts elsewhere, Hugo looks to their host, hoping he isn’t nettling the man with his reading material. Thankfully, he seems unconcerned. He’s moving through the small kitchen area with a purpose. He leaves Rian to it, despite his suspicion that any previously fresh items of food must be spoiled. By his count it’s been nine days since they all met, but he’ll know his home better than they could. He feels Thae’s suppressed tension beside him, the need to be useful, tries to distract his friend with one of the book’s illustrations.
This is, he reckons, a reinterpretation of the myth of the golden fleece, reworked just enough to be fenced. In this work, the pelt of a silver horse is possessed of miraculous healing magic. He briefly wonders how the great equine could be denuded of such a powerful artefact. Unbidden, he imagines a scene where the horse keeps returning to life, the skinning job undoing itself in front of the murderous, and yet somehow still heroic, knight’s eyes. And the narrative’s Medea stand-in seems to have been savaged quite terribly by the dragon which had guarded the pelt. Thankfully, for all of the mighty guardian’s fury, it appeared in the illustration that the princess’s dress must have some hidden armour as all manner of the girl’s white skin was on display. Suspiciously unmarred.
He feels his friend relax some, hears Rian mutter they should make themselves at home as he heads out towards the stockade. Catches Anuk looking their way (with some jealousy?) before she lies on the narrow smoke-smelling bed and starts flipping through the almanac.
-x-
Rian returns within the hour, and again Hugo feels abashed. He recalls how well the man was equipped when he and Anuk had dipped into his bag during Thaesurala’s confinement. This was apparently Rian’s version of packing light. He supposes he needed minimum survival stocks and feared being tracked, might even have believed he could return home depending on how things worked out.
While the other three were kicking their feet, Rian has apparently been gathering everything of purpose from his shelter. And he’s taken note of absences in their own preparations. Of course, given the nature of Hugo’s departure, his preparations were little but absences. So now he’s slotting a veritable trove of gear into the bag the big man had stitched for him, lodged beside his waterskin gift. And again, all offered in a manner that couldn’t imagine thanks or adulation. He’s the very spirit of the forest, and as he responded to Hugo’s immediate attempts to reroute him “Either you take them or they’re left here.” No worries, no bother.
Rian’s own pack is bulging in a manner that would be of concern were he a smaller man. The group at least managed to negotiate some spreading of the weight. Rian seemed to anticipate a gourmand’s adventure, at least going by the range of pots and dishes he was intent on bringing. After some negotiation, he allowed these to be distributed more evenly between the group’s packs.
More mysterious was the large double handful of…well, spikes…the woodsman slotted into his pack. It was the only manner he could use to describe the things. They were obviously crafted from good metal, steel to his eye, and looked very well sharpened. At least nine inches in length, varying in shape and width, Hugo couldn’t guess why the man would encumber himself with such a weight of metal. It puzzled him twice as much when the big man caught him staring, offered him a grin and slapped the side of his bulging pack where he was stowing the spikes. Apparently important then. And for some reason that Rian thought he should already understand.
They were each of them flagging by the time their host ushers them between the edge of the house and the stockade. He gesticulates to a shallow slope under the cottage, Hugo scuttling down to find a low but roomy cave, stone ceiling forming the foundations for the home. It’s cool down here, Rian explaining this was his bolthole while he was working on a defensible homestead. He explains it’s better to arrive at Thornwood, their next destination, in full light and it isn’t far. They’re offered this place to sleep, swaddled in Rian’s winter furs. And with the promise of the best food he can hunt and forage before they even need to set off.
The group agrees quickly, in Anuk’s case he’s sure because she is craving sleep. In his shared look with Thae, however, there’s agreement that the man may need to say goodbye to this place. That, or satisfy himself that the smallholding isn’t still being surveilled by the bandits.
Either road, Hugo is content to give the man whatever he needs. As they settle in the early hours, he realises this will be a great place to sleep late, shaded as the open entrance is between the walls of the stockade and house. He suspects Rian may instate watches, or be up and down himself, but the man immediately falls asleep. Suspects that this might have been a safe sleeping place even after the homestead was complete.
And then, the big man’s trick seems to be catching as Hugo and Three are ensconced in warmth and comfort, smoked smell notwithstanding. He feels the little body curled on his chest quivering slightly, some dream he supposes, then he is lost into the same.
