Scion of the Wood (Southwind Knights #3) *SAMPLE*

Chapter Two, Part 1

Chapter II: The South

Asher watched in shock as his father was pressed forward to the Clerk’s desk. Toes poked through his dragging boots. Torn clothes revealed an emaciated body. One of the guards pricked him with a spear, and a fire ignited inside Asher.

He strode at the guard and snatched the spearhead with his bare hand, turning it away, pushing himself into the guard’s body, and staring murder into the man’s wide-set eyes. The soldier, aghast, fell back and tugged at his weapon. The iron blade should have shredded Asher’s palm, but his hand held stronger than steel. The guard stumbled in retreat, looking as though he saw a ghost—or a dragon, Asher thought, fuming.

“Stand down!” Sir Willem called as the other guards raised their blades.

Jaw clenched, Asher pulled the spear free and let it clatter to the marble floor. His gaze softened as he turned to his father. Farmer’s face was as shocked as the soldier’s. His cheeks were sunken, and he looked shorter somehow. He rubbed at his temple.

“That you, boy?”

Asher dropped into Farmer’s arms, and the old man secured him there. He melted into the warmth, breathing in the sharp odor that was his father’s, and in Asher’s mind he was a child again. He squeezed tight, lest the man disappear as he did each morning when the rising sun dispelled dreams.

“How about that,” the taller man said, looking down upon the reunion. Asher opened his eyes to the man who had been his neighbor for so long: the kindly Smith of Southwind. His powerful hands were stained dark brown. A tear trickled into his wild, sandy beard.

“They said you’d died,” Farmer said.

Asher pulled back. “Who said?”

Farmer’s face turned hard, and he pushed forward. Asher helped him to the desk, where Sir Willem and the Clerk watched with interest. Finn stood to the side, face stricken. Asher searched for his friend’s eye—for a confirmation that this was real—but Finn’s attention was bent on the Smith and Farmer.

“We come from Southwind,” Farmer said, addressing the Clerk as formally as he could manage. “For help.”

One of the guards spoke. “They came like beggars to the gate, Sir, demanding an audience. Told ‘em they’d get an audience and then a home in the dungeons.”

“This is my father,” Asher said. “George Farmer of Southwind.”

The Clerk’s eyes furrowed, and he stroked his beard, staring at Farmer. “I have the memory of a nutcracker,” he said. “I never forget a name or face. Your face has changed, but I know it. Yes.” He began flipping through papers. “Yes. And your name has changed as well, George Bosun.”

Farmer’s face went slack, but he drew himself up and nodded. “I sailed in Her Majesty’s fleet, once.”

Asher recalled that his father had spent most of his life in Riverdale, and he realized what had been risked by his coming here.

“Guards,” the Clerk said. “Restrain him.”

Smith looked around in panic, but the Farmer did not move.

“Wait!” Asher said as the guards scurried forward. “Hear him out!”

The Clerk eyed Asher for a moment before raising a hand to halt the guards. “Tell me, then. Why would a deserter return to his post?”

“For help, Sir,” Farmer said. “For protection.”

The Clerk snorted. “Why not seek your Bulwark?”

“We’ve no Bulwark, nor any of the Queen’s soldiers, not since Sir Victor was lost and the gray men came.”

“How do you mean, no Bulwark? Sir Kensey marched a whole battalion south before winter. Fifty men, at the Queen’s command.”

“None ever came to my town,” Farmer said.

Smith came forward, nodding vigorously. “Aye, Sir. Only soldiers we had left were killed fast or else they joined the grays.”

The Clerk turned to his desk and scribbled furiously. “A Knight’s troop does not simply disappear.”

Farmer shrugged. “I’d wager that even a Knight can’t match the sort of beasts the gray men keep. Those wolves—there’s a devil inside them.”

“Wolves?”

“Corocotta,” Asher said, understanding.

The Clerk looked up, though his hand continued to write. “Who are these gray men?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Farmer said. “The night Tailor died, they started springing up. Made these big speeches, got the people all heated. When the Healer returned from the Cove, they caused a madness, demanding justice be done, denouncing the Queen. They took a torch to the Healer’s old hut and chased him from town.”

Asher remembered that night well: the charred fumes, the angry mob, the three brigands who assaulted him, Finn, and Galen on the road. Those men had all worn gray cloth. And he couldn’t forget the rabble-rouser, the big Handler who’d tried to kill the Queen.

“More showed up every day,” Farmer said, “and there was none to stop them. And not many wanted to. They brought food, clothes, comforts from the north. They called the Queen false and said she’d abandoned us to starve, and it surely seemed that way. The few who did stand up were cut down. They took Marshal’s stable, and when Mayor tried to run for it, they chased him down on their wolf-pets like he was a rat. There’s no coming or going anymore, except for them.”

It was what Galen had feared, the very reason he’d come to Riverdale and begged reinforcements for Southwind.

“And how is it that you two have come to be here,” the Clerk asked, “if none may leave?”

“Round the time they showed, my boy went missing.” Farmer turned a tough face to Asher, but there was feeling in his deep brown eyes. “They said he was killed with the Tailor’s boy—by that damned Healer.” He shook his head. “I didn’t trust them from the start. Isn’t nothing free in this life, except death. Soon as the snows stopped, I made a run for it. Wouldn’t have got far except for Smith here. Saved me. Killed two of the bastards and carried me out like a babe on his back.”

Smith was distraught at his own story. He’d always been a gentle man despite his size. “I’m sorry,” he said, likely expecting to be arrested for murder.

Asher’s guilt for leaving Southwind had always plagued him, but the feeling multiplied now. His father had thought him dead all this time. And Farmer had barely survived the journey north. It was a miracle he’d made it so far.

Finn spoke, his voice rough around the edges. “My mother,” he said, and Farmer looked sharply at him. “She thinks I’m dead?”

It took Farmer a moment to recognize Finn and make sense of the question. “Finn boy? Look at you.” He shook his head. “She mourned all through winter.”

Finn had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, and it was clear that this news came as a blow to him, although he’d disowned his mother.

The Clerk studied the two travelers for a moment before waving a pageboy over—a lanky youth near Asher’s age. The Clerk folded the parchment, sealed the sheets with wax, and stamped it with his signet. He handed the letter to the boy. “Put this yourself into the hands of Lady Keller. Go.”

The page ran, and the Clerk turned to Farmer, a grim look on his face.

“If you speak true—”

“True as salt,” Farmer said. “On my life.”

“—the Queen will wish to question you herself. And then you will be judged. On your life.”

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