Page 24

24

Don’t Look a Gift Goat in the Mouth

Anya

B rine-on-Wend was deserted.

At least, it seemed that way at first. The outermost homes appeared empty, blinds drawn, with no stirrings that my magic could detect inside. No shepherds walked the fields, but the sheep seemed healthy enough; all storefronts were shuttered, but the planter boxes outside were well-kept, even for late autumn. Brine reminded me of an abandoned Waldron-on-Wend, if slightly bigger and less welcoming.

But as we neared the main thoroughfare, a cacophony of voices rose up from the center of town. It became clear why our arrival was lacking in initial witness: it seemed the entire population had crowded into the cobblestone square. As we rounded the corner into fuller view of the congregation, I was overwhelmed by the volume of angry shouts, pained sobbing, and strained pleas and opinions.

A stone statue of a goat was located at the far end of the plaza, and a well-dressed man with a huge mustache and wild gray hair stood atop the statue’s square base, his arm clinging to the animal’s neck for balance. He was speaking to the crowd—or rather, he was trying to, his raspy voice overpowered by louder citizens.

“What do you mean it had six legs?” someone demanded.

“The Fates have come to punish us!” another yelled in shrill terror.

“How many more deaths must we endure?” someone else wailed.

“Leave it locked in the barn and let it perish of starvation!”

“Set the barn on fire!”

“And risk the creature escaping?”

“Settle, settle!” the man atop the statue shouted. “This is a town meeting, not a riot! Have some decorum so we may come to a clear-headed conclusion!”

I halted Briar at the back of the crowd, Idris—on foot—tucking himself close to the horse’s neck.

I leaned out of the saddle to whisper, “I think there’s a bear in someone’s barn.”

He glanced back at me, expression grim. “Impossible,” he ground out, even as his hand gripped Halgren’s hilt.

“You have to help,” I insisted.

I expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. “Wait here.”

Idris shouldered his way through the throng. He was taller and broader than most here, and his form—armor- and weapon-clad—was rather intimidating as he pushed his way to the front. He went straight to the town’s leader, who—still standing atop the statue—wasn’t even eye-level with Idris.

Idris leaned closer, whispering into the other man’s ear. The crowd was too raucous for my magic to pluck out Idris’s voice, so I could only watch as the town leader listened intently, nodding his head and stroking his mustache thoughtfully. Finally, he patted Idris’s shoulder in a gesture that appeared something like gratitude.

When he piped up again, his voice rang out clearly. “We have a volunteer!” he said, then unceremoniously hopped down from the statue.

A hush swept over the crowd, then murmurs followed.

From my vantage atop Briar, I watched as Idris bent, whispering in the other man’s ear again. He gestured toward me, and the older man craned his neck, nodded heartily, and waved me over.

I clicked my tongue at Briar, urging him forward slowly, offering my apologies to the folks who had to step out of his way. When I reached the statue, I hopped down, and the town leader introduced himself.

“Percival Penning,” he said, holding out a hand. “Mayor of Brine. I’m sorry you’ve arrived at such a…tumultuous moment. I assure you, under normal circumstances, our community is far more genteel.”

He was shorter than I was, and when I shook his hand, I found that his palm fit neatly into mine. “No apologies necessary,” I said. “I’m Anya Alvara. I own the Pretty Possum in Waldron.”

“Oh, the Possum! I’ve stayed there a time or two.”

“Have you?” I had no recollection of him—and he seemed hard to forget.

“Stayed there on my honeymoon, in fact,” Percival said, stroking his mustache, “though that was probably before you were born.”

“My grandmother ran it before I.”

Idris cleared his throat, bringing our brief and pleasant exchange back to reality.

Percival straightened and waved over a lumbering, light-haired man with a deep-tan face and cracked lips. “This is Len, the farmer whose barn is currently…plagued.”

Len bobbed his head in greeting.

“Let’s find us a private place to talk, shall we?” Percival asked. “My wife, Petunia, can tend to your horse.”

At the sound of her name, Petunia, a tall and buxom older woman who’d been hovering nearby, smiled warmly at me. “We’ve a stable at the Lark, our inn and pub,” she said, handing Briar a nub of carrot from her pocket. “He’ll be in good hands there.”

After passing Briar’s reins off to Petunia, I fell in step behind Percival, following him out of the square. As I passed the goat statue, I noticed a neat script had been chiseled into its base: Brine: Beloved billy goat, finder of this fair valley, our most cherished four-legged founder . How utterly delightful that the town had been settled and named after a goat who wandered here? The insight left me with a friendly impression of the place.

With the rest of the crowd still debating the issue and shouting after Percival, we all ducked into a stately stone building that must’ve been Brine’s official town hall. The main floor was filled with pews all facing a stage at the front, complete with a podium and throne-like chair.

Percival locked the door behind us—just in time for folks to start banging on the wood—and led us down the central walkway. Stepping up onto the platform, he flopped into the fancy chair; his legs didn’t reach the ground from his seat, but he still appeared quite distinguished in his tailored waistcoat and proud posture.

“So, you say you can help?” Percival said to Idris without preamble. “You certainly look the part, what with that armor and formidable weapon, and I’m certainly not one to look a gift goat in the mouth—but I must say, I find it surprising you’d volunteer without more insight into the, uh…perils of what we’re facing.”

“It seems there’s a rather unbelievable creature that’s made itself at home in Len’s barn?” I ventured.

“So, you’ve some idea,” Percival said, lacing his fingers together.

More than you know , I thought darkly.

“Rowdy as everyone seemed in the square, they told no lies. Their fear is earned.” Percival extended a hand to Len. “Tell them what happened, Len, from the beginning.”

Len fiddled with the ends of his scarf, staring down at his hands as he spoke. “Took me pigs,” he said, his country accent thick. “Just a few to start. Thought wolves were to blame at first. Then three nights ago, I forgot to close me barn door for the night. Just slipped me mind. When I went out the next morn…” He looked up at us, then, his eyes red-ringed. “Massacre.”

I winced, aching for the poor frightened animals that’d met their end by the teeth of a monster.

“He managed to trap it inside,” Percival supplied. “Came to me straight away. We mustered up a brave party of fighters yesterday to slay the creature.” His gaze fell to the floor, mustache drooping with a sorrowful frown.

“Me neighbor, Farmer Gill…” A small sob escaped Len, and he clapped a weathered hand over his mouth.

The thought of the citizens of Waldron organizing like that, only for their efforts to end in tragedy…my chest ached. I met Idris’s eyes for reassurance, but his expression was dark—all hard lines angling downward.

I went to Len, squeezing his forearm. “I’m so sorry. How awful.”

“Vile thing,” Len spat. “Never seen anything like it. Reckon I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

I knew how he felt. My nightmares had ebbed as of late, quelled only by the knowledge that Idris was near, and capable, and seemed to have a sixth sense for whether or not such creatures were lurking. Len did not have the privilege of a knight looking after him. My eyes found Idris, and the corner of my mouth kicked up, a new facet of appreciation taking shape.

“What did it look like?” Idris asked. “Can you be specific?”

“‘Bout the size and shape of a wolf, but…” Len drew a spiral in the air above his head.

“Antlers,” I supplied.

He looked to me, wide-eyed, and nodded. “And too many legs.”

“Is it still trapped in the barn?” Idris asked.

Len nodded. “After Gill…we nailed the door shut. Heard it whining last night, scratching at the wood.”

Idris’s jaw feathered.

“You probably think we’ve gone mad,” Percival said, “but there’ve been similar sightings along the Western Wood for months. At first, I thought they were merely the tall tales from the homesteaders west of here—those lonesome folk can be superstitious, you know—but then…” He shook his head. “I blame myself, for not taking it seriously much sooner.”

“How in the Fates can you eradicate such a thing?” Len asked Idris. “I couldn’t bear to look upon it a second time.”

“You won’t have to,” Idris said firmly.

“You seem mighty confident,” Percival said, narrowing his eyes. “You sure you know what you’re up against?”

I considered telling them that he’d slain monsters before, but I didn’t want to divulge more than his Oath allowed. “He’s a formidable fighter,” I assured them instead, even as my heart lodged itself in my throat at the thought of Idris facing another monster on his own.

“’Tis no average predator,” Len said darkly.

Idris’s face—shadowed in the dim gathering hall—gave away nothing of his confidence. “Take me to the barn.”