Heir of Iron

"... And so we don't know how far and wide these tunnels may reach, nor the ranging forces may spread, so if there is shelter you may seek, I bid that you take it until you see riders under the Eye-and-Horn." Bart finished before the stern-faced mob.

"Where would ye 'ave us go, Laddie?" called a nameless man from the crowd.

"This is our home!"

"We dinnae 'ave anywhere else!"

"Ne'er here fer good tidings, are ye Church Hounds..." The tone of the villages shifted dourly, and the cool shade no longer felt friendly, the hard eyes felt like nails pressed outwards in warning, and the decidedly firm feeling of being the other in a place settled around Bart with a bracing chill, Bart stammered with an explanation before a deep, woodsy voice won out over the muttering crowd.

"Now ye git wit' that talk, ye know th' Lady's creatures are good men," Chief Kaden had stood just a bit taller, and in that moment seemed to top ten feet as his voice rang out not with force, but authority. Every man woman and child looked to him, his arms folded across his lean, wiry chest. Arms that bore the scars of a life hard-lived, an eclectic mix of marks from blade, tool, and tooth.

"The Ser came this way out o' the kindness o' his heart and his duty, nae one o' Lachheim's Spears gonna come this far into tae hills so ye keep your bellyaching at th' bad news tae yerselves," he concluded, and a new murmur set through the assembled kinfolk.

"Stormcrow." one faceless voice murmured, and Kaden's face twisted in a frown.

"Strong words, Jules. Ye willin' tae back that up tae his face?" the Chief challenged one grizzled man, a handsome fellow of strong arms and sinewy upper body that brought to mind the archers of the Abbey's Men-At-Arms. The man wore the leathers and kit of a hunter and had the eyes of a killer. Bart had seen those plenty often in the past days.

"Aye." The swarthy man said, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his stubbled, cleft chin stood out fiercely beneath a pair of dangling mustaches, "I seen 'em. Crows and Ravens both on th' heather and in the wood. Ol' Rawhead's stirrin', his creatures are on th' prowl." the man named Jules asserted and stood right up to Bart, not quite of a size with the burly Knight-Brother but of a shape.

"Stormcrow, aye I'll say it tae ye face. Th' ol' monster like as not followed ye gaudy little caravan down the valley tae come callin'." the man said with confidence born not from bravado, but the fruits of having been tested oft and hard at that, "Ye lookin' awful soft and comfortable fer a Ser o' the Line, nae speck o' harness nor steel,"

"Oh, ye wanna see 'is SCARS ye fookin' shiteass sheep-buggerer?!" Lidia's voice lit out, the little rogue having practically morphed wholly out of nowhere between Bart and the Hunter, this 'Jules'. To his credit, he did not back down from the fierce, green-eyed demon of a woman in a red hood as she pushed herself snarling into his face, "We'll compare! I'll give ye' a few new ones tae match any ye're lackin' in kind!" she snarled and Bart found himself growing agitated, that familiar tremor of thick black anger quavering in his belly. Jules looked down at her, and his dark eyes widened a moment and he curled his lip.

"Cute lil' eyes on this one, too." he said, and quite firmly grasped Lidia's hood, before Bart nor she could react, he pulled it free with a snake-like motion of his sinewy arms, yanking it down and exposing Lidia's wide-eyed, stunned face to the crowd. Silence reigned for a heavy moment.

"A ser wit' nae speck o' armor and a sidhe lass in his bedroll come' callin' at th' very moment I come strollin' in tae tell Ol' Man Whitt about the carrion birds what flock hereabouts," Jules said in a dour tone, not so much angry as defiant. He held up the hood and then handed it with... a surprising amount of respect back to Lidia, his eyes and voice for Bart.

"Color me a mite suspicious, Ser."

Fury lit in Bart's belly as Lidia recoiled away close to him, snatching her hood back from the hunter as he kept his shoulders straight and his eyes square with the Knight-Brother, Bart's hands balled into fists — meaty hammers with which to pound the defiance from this man's eyes, a fetid and raw rush of anger following that thought brought the Church Knight up short. Freezing, he slowly turned his gaze as he felt that familiar twinge of wriggling horror in his guts, the animal sensation of being stalked.

There. The grinning, bleached skull of the thing perched just to one side of the nearby dwelling, leaning around the corner like a mere solicitous neighbor, its gaze and influence leeching into Bart like the lance of a biting insect. Bart recoiled from it, and with a blink of his eyes the phantom had vanished once more... and in its place was that white-throated raven from before. Bart took a deep breath.

"I will ask you kindly to not abuse those under my care, neighbor." Bart said in a level exhale, closing his eyes a moment and counting his heartbeats as he continued; "I will not challenge what you say for you are correct in any case. The Wendigo has returned, at least in influence. I have seen it's creatures, I have slain them." Bart stated levelly

"It's true, Jules. Nae, for honest," Callum said, having edged up in the crowd... though his eyes were on Lidia oft as the tall hunter; "Met 'em on the road and they spoke o' the warnin' first and foremost. The southerner 'as tales, word o' God!" he urged enthusiastically, Bart raised his hand over his heart.

"Word of God." Bart agreed, an oath if anything was.

"Nae, forgive me fer needin' more than the word o' outsiders an' children, Ser," Jules said in a hard tone, and a sonorous, aged voice came in answer.

"Will I suffice, lad?"

At the edge of the crowd was a truly, genuinely ancient man. He leaned on a walking stick with a knobbed, formidable, and clearly-dented head, like as not from fighting as anything. His attire was threadbare in a well-loved fashion, his coat a faded navy like a cool summer shadow, and a sun-bleached yellow peasant cap fit comfortably about his head, a heavy tooled buckle held the coat closed, and a faded bone holy symbol hung from his throat — the lidless eye perched in the curve of a shepherd's crook, an ancient symbol from before the Black March. He wore not boots but soft-soled shoes of the same pale yellow as his hat and the whole of his attire was edged with fine, hand-wrought embroidery, the leather tattooed with designs and scrollwork — patterns that found their way to the stout walking stick at hand as well.

His face was kind. Thin to the point that it was naught more than muscle and bone with skin as an afterthought, a dense beard of off-white strands framed his sharp features, and his pale blue eyes had that same jaded solidity to them as any he had seen — yet his were tempered with an ageless warmth. The eyes of a man who had seen wonders.

"Aye, iffin' ye vouch for it I cannae speak 'gainst it, Whitt," Jules said gamely, his back straight as one of his arrows. The elder smiled and walked forward, clearly beyond anyone else in years, he walked with the cane more as an affection than a need, the elderly man surprisingly robust.

"Oh, good. I 'ad thought perhaps we'd gone all modern hereabouts, nae listenin' tae one's learned folk and all." he chortled softly, meeting Jules' eyes for a moment, the swarthy hunter looking a bit rueful for a moment. Whitt ignored it, and seemingly everyone else — walking straight up to Lidia, who all but cowered beneath Bart's towering presence, cat-eyed stare wide and frightened.

"Now, now, summer's on its way lass, cannae have ye head uncovered." He chided her softly and took the hood from her trembling fingers, gently he tucked it over her rumpled hair as she stared at him in stunned confusion, his fingers covered in rings and the callouses of decades — still steady and firm.

"We all remember our sympathies fer th' children o' the forest." He said in a voice that was raised just enough to carry to the crowd, it was not a scolding tone as much as a quiet reminder as he tucked Lidia's hair back. "There, nae harm done lass," he said and looked up to Bart with a comically exaggerated look of alarm.

"Now, I nae remember buildin' a wall here!" he jibed, getting a murmur of laughter from the crowd and from Bart as he patted the big Paladin's arm fondly. "Strong arms, honest work ye've seen, nae just th' blade," he said before folding both his hands over his knobby cane's stout head.

"Ye say ye've seen th' carrion crows on the heather?" he inquired and Jules nodded tightly.

"Aye, Norwest o' here near the flowerin' fields." he said a gleam in his eye, Whitt nodded with a faint 'ah' of understanding.

"Ol' Rawhead's come callin' for sure then, out near the Barrowspire, 'is old home is a bit leaky but still 'is iffin' he comes callin'." the old man confirmed, Bart raised an eyebrow and the ancient man smiled gently. "' Twas its ol' house when it ruled here, its stood empty iffin' a bit haunted since your Lady took arms an' drove out the unclean." An uncomfortable murmur spread into the crowd, as Old Whitt turned to them.

"Be not afraid, kinfolk." He assuaged them with a smile, his eyes bright and his face gentle as he moved with a surety that belied his years to stand before them ahead of the party, "We weathered the Black March wit' ne'er more than scars and bitter memories, Ol' Rawhead can come whistlin' and he'll find naught as he did before." he said, and patted a clearly frightened youngster's hand at the edge of the crowd, gnarled, tattooed fingers gentle.

"Listen tae the good Churchman, Ol' Rawhead don't know these hills as we," he said and got several nods from the older members of the crowd and a bustle of people calling for children and preparations. Whitt turned to face Bart.

"I fear I must be apologizin' for Jules. He means well, its 'is role tae be suspicious an' stern."

"I dinnae need ye to apologize fer me, Ol' Timer, I am perfectly capable o' doin' it meself." Jules cut in with a stern but respectful tone, his eyes full of iron as he met Bart's gaze. That anger flared in him again, but the man extended his hand. "Nae fer nothin', doin' my due — nae hard feelin's, aye?" he offered, and Bart hesitated — his gut full of fire still, Lidia's shocked face burning behind him... but he saw no malice in that man's eyes anymore, just the burning fire of duty. He was familiar with that look as well now. He grasped the man's hand, and they shook firmly.

"Bully." the Hunter said and turned to Lidia, who was still huddled near Bart, eyes wide as dinner plates. "Ah, my apologies are a wee bit thin with ye, wee lass." he said, tipping his pointed woodsman's cap at her, "Cruel means o' me tae use ye as an' example, nae excuses fer it," he said, and Lidia didn't offer him much in way of words, merely a wary gaze and a curl of her lip at him — clearly restraining the sharper edge of her tongue for the party's benefit — Bart met Jules' level gaze.

"She's a bit sensitive about her heritage, neighbor. You may just have to take the loss there."

The hunter nodded plainly, tipping his cap at her all the same, "Would nae be the first time. Ne'er been good wit' people." he said honestly, his gaze still hard at Bart, "Also ne'er been entirely wrong, there's somethin' off 'bout ye and yours, Ser." he said, his jaw set. "Mayhaps nae yer fault or yer doin', but my gut's ne'er wrong."

Bart was given pause there, and as his own guts twisted with concern, Lidia found her tongue, pushing past Bart to stand before the much taller man, the diminutive thief's green eyes wide, now more like a hunting cat on the prowl.

"I dinnae care nary a shite about ye gut, balls, or the brick yer usin' for brains. Iffin' ye wanna see exactly how much a sidhe I am, ye'll keep on about this." she snarled, her nostrils flaring with anger and the sharpened ends of her inhuman canines showing beneath her curled lips as she did. "Nay, no one calls me a man's play-doll, simple as."

Jules once again tipped his hat at her, but his gaze wavered not a bit; "I apologize fer me harsh words, I ain't mean nothin' by them but a bit o' prickin' for the ego," he said, jaw set. "Ye see a lot about a person by th' way they handle their anger."

Lidia's eyes were two perfect pools of intense, inhuman green as she did not break her gaze from his, even Bart was unnerved by her furious, unblinking gaze as she tugged her hood low again. Jules quietly adjusted his hat down over his eyes — perhaps in embarrassment, perhaps not — and simply nodded to her as he pushed past towards the far way. Callum of all things, broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Are ye really a forest girl?" came his voice, the wide-eyed youth's face looking up at her, though he wasn't much the shorter, and clearly would sprout tall as Jules come next spring. Lidia was caught off guard by that, visibly missing a step as she turned to him.

"N-nay, nae like that." she said, hunching her shoulders a bit; "Mum was a forest sprite, Dad loved her with all o' his heart an' soul," she said, wringing her fingers into the well-worn cloth of her hood unconsciously. Callum smiled at her.

"Oh, me mum's gone too," he said, smiling sadly at her. "Pa's the same. He talks to 'er headstone like she's still listenin'."

"She is, son," Bart said softly, recovered from the confrontation as he watched Jules exchange something quietly with Whitt before turning and vanishing into the trees once more as if he wasn't ever there in the first place. The big Knight-Brother smiled at the young man; "She's waiting and in good company." The young boy smiled back at him.

"That's what Ol' Whitt says too, I like tae think it." he said, looking up at Lidia, the thief's face oddly vulnerable; "Can ye see in the dark wit' those?"

The little changeling froze, the sheer innocence of the question striking her across the face as sure as an open palm, and a smile broke out across her features as if the weight of the whole situation had simply sloughed off her.

"Aye, I can see in pitch dark good as I can bright noon," she said, that familiar pride returning to her voice.

"Wow, bully for that! I wish I could see in th' dark, I get lost on way tae th' privy sometimes," he said with gratuitous honesty you only found in fools and children, Lidia laughed a bit and Bart chuckled as the two went off a ways — Callum coaxing both Lidia and Thistle closer together, the latter far more wary than the former, whom simply set about investigating Lidia's boots with her nose cautiously.

"Nae anything as pure as the eyes o' youth." Whitt's aged voice came to Bart, the crowd had dispersed back to their routines, perhaps a bit more earnestness in their efforts now, Bart simply nodded.

"Jules wasn't wrong, was he laddie?" he asked quietly, Bart's blood went cold.

"No, not in so many words. It's complicated."

"Aye, most things o' the divine are, includin' its soldiers," Whitt answered and turned to Bart, eyes kind and patient. "Keep yer secrets, laddie. I will nae press ye for yer pains, but God tells me ye require me aid, an' I am hardly one to argue wit' him."

"Yes!" Nazir's voice came, piping in where he'd come from standing with Naima and Rashid, the latter two had watched the exchange between Jules, Bart, and Lidia with stoic expressions and steady eyes — a simple glance at Rashid proved to Bart with a curt nod that had things turned violent, he would have been at his side in mere moments, "Cal told us you were the person to ask of tales and lore pertaining to this Wendigo creature."

"Aye, Ol' Rawhead is well known tae me." Whitt answered with a bit of a frown; "An' what I dinnae know, I can send ye on tae who does."

"Excellent!" Nazir crowed, clapping his hands together; "Shall we adjourn somewhere comfortable to talk?" the old man laughed a bit and shook his head.

"Oh nay, I am merely passin' through tae the other clanhomes in the valley, ye're welcome tae accompany me iffin' ye please," the old man said, tapping his knobby cane on the turf pointedly; "Nay anythin' quite as fine as a walk wit' good conversation."

"Oh, of course!" Nazir agreed, and Bart rubbed his chin thoughtfully,

"If there are further settlements, I would give them word as well." he agreed and Whitt grinned.

"Well, nae sense in wastin' much o' our time, its' a shade tougher tae get these ol' bones movin' after a full stop," he said, making to move, Bart nodding and gesturing to Rashid, who gave an affirmative motion, barking something at Salim and his workmen, setting everyone back to the road.

"I'll follow a spell too!" Callum said, Thistle, trailing him as he and Lidia joined the caravan, both their fingers and faces sticky with some kind of sweetroll — a token of a goodwife from the village, "Me homestead's 'bout halfway 'tween here and th' next clanship, so I can jus' walk a ways."

"Aye, wouldn't do tae make ye Pa worry, laddie." Whitt said, looking to Bart, "Jules is about, ye may nae see 'em but he'll be prowlin' somewhere nearby. He takes th' safety o' the valley seriously."

"Jules is scarier than any o' the beasties lurkin' in the thicket, so say I!" Cal asserted, the hard-eyed, rude hunter seemed to be a bit of a local folk hero of sorts. Bart considered that and did his best to re-assess the man's stolid demeanor through that lens. It added more credence to his tenacity.

The group set out after leaving that ancient stone bridge into a veritable tunnel of trees and thicket, arcing and intertwining over the road between the hills and their jutting spires. Nazir and Bart stayed on foot, walking alongside Old Whitt, Cal and Lidia had hopped up to her spot on the cart, Thistle warily letting the slim changeling pet her.

"Ol' Rawhead is a predictable sort o' monster." Whitt said, Bart feeling the eyes of the monster practically on his back as he tipped his head to bid the elder to continue; "He's a primitive thing, a bit sad iffin' ye consider it."

"Sad?" Nazir asked, the young southerner's eyes alight, his mind focused on the task at hand, a trait of his Bart found admirable.

"Oh aye, he's an elemental thing, bound up an' twisted by what he is." the thin old man explained, the shadows seemed to vibrate with anger to Bart's gaze as he listened, Whitt's eyes gleamed — almost like he could see it as well, "He's bound up, jus' like your Lady and your Learned One, all o' 'em are bound by the rules o' what they are. They cannae be nothin' else but what they are, an' the old monster is a base, primal thing o' hungers an' wants." he concluded, and the shadows felt as if they would shatter like glass.

"You sound like you have pity for this monster," Bart breathed, and Whitt nodded.

"I do. It's a sad thing, evil tae the very teeth — but sad. Imagine, ne'er bein' able tae be anything but greedy, hungry an' empty, always cravin', never full."

"A misery, for sure," Nazir agreed, his amber eyes narrowing; "If it is like the Learned One, then it has a domain of sorts then, as she does the higher learning and science, wisdom, knowledge, yes?"

"Oh aye, its realm is that o' rot and decay, it is th' very avatar o' rot — body, mind, an' soul."

"That explains the way its minions debase themselves so readily!" Nazir said, nodding enthusiastically; "That rot isn't just physical, it's existential, degrading them down to the base, essential forms of man."

"Aye, yes!" Whitt said with a smile, grinning with yellowed teeth and a gleam in his eye; "Ye're a sharp one, I like that." he said with warm approval that put a blush in Nazir's cheeks; "Ye're dead-on — Ol' Rawhead craves the ol' world as it once was, th' Age o' Fire and Stone, it hates this modern world, ne'er able to grasp too-firmly tae anyone wit' the plenty given by the march o' progress."