1

 

    Light spilled out onto the cobbles as the tavern door swung open so violently it slammed against the wall behind it. The blacksmith shoved the pickpocket out into the night.

    The Vinke wheeled his arms to keep his balance as he stumbled forward, then cursed as he realized his half-finished mug of swill they called beer was now soaking the front of his shirt and chin. He snarled and flung the mug as hard as he could, but the blacksmith had already turned back into the tavern and shut the door without a second glance. The mug bounced off the wood with an unsatisfying thunk and clattered back onto the street.

    These witch-servants can pick up after their betters anyway Anton seethed as he stood there in the street, glaring down at the stupid mug, the stupid tavern, and this stupid town. They’re all fools, he thought, and stupid bumpkins. The boys in the town called him “fresh off the plains”, but Vinkes were supposed to be the Wagon-People; they were meant to be wanderers and herders. Everyone looked out for the group in Vinke wagon pods, but you also had to look out for yourself in the harsh environments of the Thousand-Year Grasslands. A little pickpocketing and a little “borrowing” from your neighbors should be expected. And if they were too stupid and complacent to guard their pockets in the tavern, they deserved to lose a few coins, just like the blacksmith. But these Vinke had been settled, and it showed. 

    Decades ago, so he had been told, when their great-grandmothers’ wagon pods had made what was supposed to be just a way-stop in the shadow of the castle, the castle’s witch had come to them with an offer. So now, generations later, not even the oldest Vinke could say she had been there when the camp had first become a settlement. Then the settlement became a town—grass grew up around decaying wheel chocks, fold-down stairs became permanent stone steps, and the dirt paths worn by decades of feet were replaced by cobbles and bricks. And the Castle of the West still loomed high on the crags above the town, blotting out the moonlight, and creating a shadow that reached out over all of them.

    But Anton wasn’t one of these settled Vinke. The rest of them could bow and scrape to the witch and be just comfortable enough to trust their neighbors while thinking he was the stupid one. But he was smarter. The corner of his lip raised contemptuously as he spun away from the tavern, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the glow of the firefae lanterns hanging from each wagon’s door arch. He scuttled down the street, heading for one of the only other stone structures in Vagonton besides the tavern: the blacksmith’s shop. 

    It wasn’t hard to break in; no one ever locked their doors in Vagonton, and it was child’s play to untie the cords that held the leather curtain down over the smithing area that would be open to the street in the daytime. Ducking under the flap, a few glowing embers left in the forge gave Anton enough light to gather up all the hammers, rasps, tongs, knives, and other tools he could carry and wrap them in several leather aprons. He was almost done when a small glint caught his eye; just a little hoof knife, its curled end broken off, carelessly tossed on a shelf awaiting repair. Picking it up, Anton tucked it into his belt.

    Anton could have taken a safer route, but it was much more satisfying to walk right past the tavern again as he snuck out of town with his cargo. Laughter and music still issued from behind the windows, but Anton smiled. The blacksmith and his sons would enjoy their night, having no idea what was happening to their entire livelihood right now.

    Anton was sweating by the time he reached the bridge, but it was all worth it when, with a grunt and a heave, he chucked the bundle of tools over the side and heard them splash into the deep pools that eddied in the river underneath. Without his tools, the blacksmith and his sons would have no work and would find themselves poor and hungry. Maybe the family would even have to beg for the witch to take them as extra servants up at the castle. That was a satisfying thought.

    Anton hitched himself up on the stone parapet and let his legs dangle over the side, enjoying his triumph and collecting his breath. As he moved, something sharp pressed into his hip and he remembered the little hoof knife. He smiled. The knife would be his last laugh over the blacksmith, another memento of his cleverness to add to his cache. And now would be a good time to hide his latest trophy, when everyone was either in the tavern, or asleep.

    Pushing himself off the parapet, he landed lightly on the stones and turned left, following the road leading away from the town. Soon the cobbles gave way to yellow bricks, gleaming in the moonlight, and it wasn’t hard to follow the road into the orchards, even in the dark. But he was looking for a specific curve in the road, a certain brick that had been wrenched out of its pocket and re-adjusted, just-so …

    Branches rustled in a light breeze above his head as Anton took one last look back toward the town, then stepped off the yellow bricks into the dark alley of trees. The Vinke couldn’t help sneering as he skulked along the perfectly straight rows. The old bunici had warned him about the Whispering Orchards when he first arrived in Vagonton—there were monsters among the branches they said. No one was allowed in the witch’s orchard, and those that got caught, well… 

    Anton rolled his eyes. Those superstitious grandmothers never told him what happened to trespassers, and when Anton asked them, all they knew were the usual “I heard that so-and-so’s grandfather went in when he was a lad and never came back” warnings … well, how could he have become a grandfather if he never came back? Obviously those tales were for all the nervous, gullible bumpkins stuck in the shadow of folk tales and bedtime stories. There had never been any monsters in the orchard before. Even if there were, Anton was too clever to get caught. 

    Turning east at the sixteenth row, Anton trotted deeper into the trees and turned north at the branch that looked like a dragon’s head. The leaves above him rustled again. He frowned, slowing his steps. There were no glowing swarms of firefae tonight and he hadn’t felt any breeze here on the ground. The warnings of the bunici flashed through his head, but no, those were just stories … 

    The leaves rustled again, and Anton shuddered, this time feeling a tickle at the back of his neck. Or was that his imagination? He knew there wasn’t anything watching him from the shadows, but just to be safe, he sidled around a tree, setting his feet carefully between the dry leaves. He eased into the darkness underneath the trunk and waited, trying to ignore the stiffening hair on his arms. Glints of moonlight twinkled off the leaves and Anton blinked away the feeling of a thousand eyes watching him. There was nothing in the orchard, nothing snuffling around in the darkness, no monsters in the shadows, nothing was stalking him …

    … Anton swallowed and his fingers found the warm handle of the hoof knife tucked in his belt. It was better than nothing, just in case … but no, he wouldn’t need it. All this nervousness was just caused by the normal noises of any forest at night. The breezes had been rustling faintly in the canopy above his head on and off the whole time.

     But with a diminuendo that matched the sinking in his stomach, the humming insects, the creaking tree frogs, and even the distant twittering of night birds began to fizzle away. Anton sucked in his breath, and even that seemed too loud as the hair on the back of his neck stiffened. His fist tightened around the handle of his hoof knife. Even the rustling of the canopy dissipated until there was only utter, suffocating silence all around him. Tension like the pressure in the air just before a thunderclap seemed to swell over the orchard itself. Throwing his elbow in front of his face to muffle his breathing, which surely could be heard for miles, Anton edged around the tree. He couldn’t see anything. There were only moonlit shadows.

    Ducking low, Anton slunk out of the trunk’s shadow, wincing as each footstep seemed to crackle like a lightning strike through the endless rows. Perhaps tonight hadn’t been the best night to sneak into the orchard. The addition to his trophy stash could wait. Anton found himself increasing his pace as he counted. One, two, three, four, five … wait, had he already turned back south? Did he need to turn west yet? And had he counted the eighth, or was it the thirteenth tree on his fingers?  

    He began to trot, then jog, then found himself running through the rows, exchanging speed for stealth. His heart pounded in his ears, loud enough for surely the whole forest to hear. Soon he was gasping as his run turned into a full-on sprint. His back prickled with the sense of an unnatural, evil silence that seemed to follow him as he ran. The silence toyed with him, spurring him along like a driver with a prod. He cursed; at least the sound of his voice was something, anything better than that wretched silence. But then his foot caught a root and he stumbled. He should have reached the end of the orchard by now! Where was the road?

    Anton flung himself around another trunk, clutching his ribs, half expecting a gorgon or spidren to go scuttling past as he stepped aside. But only the barest whiff of breeze rippled past, agitating the leaves like any normal forest zephyr. The Vinke let out a puff of relief at the normal noise and bent over, trying to ease the cramp in his side … and then a touch, a pressure, something that was not wind tickled the back of his neck. Anton felt every hair on his body stand straight up and this time he couldn’t contain his squeak of terror. He plunged out of the shadows, sprinting as fast as he could down the path. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t care, as long as it was in the opposite direction of whatever it was behind him.

    Without warning, the trees ended and Anton barreled into a clearing. His brain barely registered confusion when the hard-packed dust and leaves of the orchard changed to moist, cold loam. But he squeaked a gasp of relief when he saw the gleam of yellow bricks in the moonlight up ahead. He lurched toward them, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment, trying to rid them of tears and dust. But his foot caught a soft spot in the soil, and Anton pitched forward. He scrambled in the dirt, trying to get his arms up and his feet back underneath him … but then there was a sound, a horrible rhythmic whumph-whumph in the air. He barely had time to look up and see a blurred shadow above him before something slammed into his chest.

    Anton crashed to the ground as a monster descended from the night sky. The silhouette of wings, bigger than any mountain eagle's, framed the monster's body as it landed smoothly on the dirt and began to walk toward him. The Vinke scrambled, almost regaining his feet, but the monster was too fast. It pounced, grabbing him by the shoulder and flipping him onto his back like a herder roping a lamb. The monster pressed its knee into Anton’s chest and its yellow eyes glowed like a cat as it grabbed him by the jaw. Strange patterns and glyphs tattooed the monster's skin, snaking from behind claws protruding from its knuckles up to its forearms. 

    “Look at me, Vinke.” The monster’s voice rumbled from deep in its chest. “What are you doing in her orchards?”

    “I …” Anton coughed, giving himself time to think. Whatever the monster was, at least it was in front of him now, and not an unknown wraith in the darkness. “You have to help me, sir. I’m running away, I have a horrible master who will beat me if—”

    “Liar.” The monster leaned closer to Anton’s face. “You know the Orchard is forbidden; the rules are that you stay on the road. Yet I watch you sneak in here, night after night, to the same tree under the kudzu, often picking her apples as you go. What do you think she would have to say about that?”

    “Please, don’t hurt me, it wasn’t my fault.” Anton bit his tongue to muster some tears and sniffed, his face still tight in the monster’s grip. He moved his hand toward his belt and his fingers touched smooth wood. “She wouldn’t miss one little apple here and there, would she? You understand, I come in here to get away, they bully me in town, and I get hungry—” 

    Anton swung as hard as he could, burying the hoof knife up to its hilt in the monster’s hand. The monster roared and jerked backward as Anton began to scramble away. But suddenly his arm collapsed beneath him, and an agonizing pain shot from his fingers to his shoulder. Anton crumpled to the dirt and held up his hand, wondering what was wrong with it … and a spurt of blood hit him in the mouth. Numb horror spread through his body. His finger hung in front of his face, dangling from one last string of flesh and jiggling in a macabre dance as his hand began to shake. And then the string of flesh snapped. Anton screamed as the finger fell onto his jacket with a thup, and rolled into the dirt. Blood splattered his face again, dripping down his neck and onto his collar. 

    But the Vinke’s scream fizzled into a wheeze of terror. The monster had yanked the knife out of its hand with a hiss, and it stepped back toward Anton who was still prone on the ground. And the tattoos on the monster’s hand began to move. They burrowed through its flesh like eels, surging and writhing around the bloody wound. The monster gave a small shudder as a final flap of skin knit itself together, leaving nothing but residual blood and a small pink scar. Looming over him, the monster reached that abhorrent hand toward him.

Anton’s scream exploded through the orchard once again. The last thing he remembered was seeing the monster hesitate. Then a massive wing hurtled toward the side of his head, and he crashed into darkness.