Heir of Thunder (Stormbourne Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

A bedraggled wagon, driven by a haggard old man, passed me
on the road leading to town. He held the reins of two moth-eaten drovers who
plodded along in unhurried determination. The old man tugged the edge of his
broad-brimmed hat in greeting.

I smiled back, but then ducked my head to keep my features
hidden. Once Nonnie and I passed the wagon, I removed my cloak and tucked it
away in my saddlebag. At home, the villagers recognized my cloak almost before
they recognized me, and I never went without it except on the hottest days. If
anyone were on the lookout for me, the cloak would have made an obvious
descriptor.

The trip into town took longer than I’d estimated. By the
time we reached the first outlying homes, the day had passed into late
afternoon. I asked a woman carrying a basket of folded laundry for directions
to The Silver Goose. She pointed to one of the cross streets near the entrance
to town and told me to look for a large, whitewashed building with black
shutters and a goose shaped shingle hanging in the front yard.

The inn was handsome, if not a little worn around its edges.
I refrained from thorough scrutiny because, compared to another night on the
cold, hard ground, this place looked fit for a princess, such as myself. After
tying Nonnie to a hitching post, I followed my nose to the small dining room on
the ground floor.

A sour aroma, pungent scents from proofing dough and spilt
beer, greeted me even before I opened the door. The lesser fragrance of
roasting beef complimented the yeasty smell, and my stomach grumbled. A stout,
bald man wiped tables while an equally solid but taller woman crossed the room
toward me. A white kerchief covered her graying hair, but she carried a heavy
wooden tankard in each hand as if they weighed no more than teacups. She set
the drinks in front of two men who nodded and mumbled thanks.

I had never procured the services of an inn, or ordered food
in a public place before. I fingered the coins in my pocket and waited for
inspiration on how to proceed. I didn’t have to wait long.

The serving woman noticed me standing in the doorway and
waved in my direction. “Well, young miss. What can I get for you? Or are you
content to stand there gaping at us from the doorway. The benches are hard, but
they’re more comfortable than standing while you eat, and I dare say you look
famished.”

“Yes ma’am, I am,” I said, stepping further into the room.

The woman approached and stopped before me, close enough to
reveal eyes as blue as the aquamarine ring Father had given me for my sixteenth
birthday. A ring I’d probably never see again as it was still sitting in a
jewelry box in my room at Fallstaff… or, more likely, laying in a pile of ash
and rubble.

“We’ve got a bit of venison stew that should stick to your
bones,” she said, “and you look skinny enough to need it. There’s a batch of
pocket pies just out of the oven, too, if you prefer. Mutton today. It’s all
the butcher had left by the time I got to market.”

I settled onto a seat at one of the closest tables. It felt
unbelievably good to sit on something still and quiet. “The stew sounds good,
and do you have any cider?”

“I do, I do. You rest yourself right there, and I’ll bring
you a plate.” She patted my arm in a motherly way and walked away.

Heavy tables--well scarred but polished to a glossy patina—furnished
the dining room. The baldheaded man had moved into the corner where he swept
his broom over the slate floor and stooped to collect debris in his dustpan. After
a brief glance in my direction, the other two diners ignored me, huddling over
their plates and eating in a way that suggested either the food was extremely
good, or they were tremendously hungry…or both.

The serving woman returned, bearing a steaming bowl and a
plate laden with thick slices of brown bread. My stomach growled again, and she
chuckled. “Just as I thought. Eat every bite and you’ll find yourself in better
cheer.” After setting a mug of cider in front of my bowl, she lowered her voice.
“You’re not traveling alone, I hope.”

“No, ma’am. My... brother will be here soon.”

“Ah, good then. Will you be needing a room, too, or only the
meal?”

“Yes, rooms and stabling.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, clucking her tongue. “We don’t
have a place for horses here, but I can point you in the right direction. There’s
a hostler at the edge of town who’s got a livery yard. Tell him I sent you and
he’ll give you a fair rate.”

“Thank you,” I muttered through a mouthful of bread, too
hungry to care about etiquette.

“I’ll pop upstairs and get your room ready. When you’re done
eating, tell my husband John over there,”—she pointed at the man in the corner
who stopped sweeping long enough to nod at me— “and he’ll help you bring up
your things.”

“Oh, um, could we have two rooms?” I asked. “A separate one,
for my brother?”

Her cheery countenance dimmed. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid we’ve
only the one room left. It’s got a nice couch, though. I’m sure your brother
will be comfortable on it. I’ll make sure you have plenty of blankets. If you
need anything else, call for me. I am the Missus Hale, but you shall call me
Moira.”

I glanced at my diminishing bowl of stew. “Alright, Moira,
thank you.”

After scraping my plate clean and dabbing up every last
crumb with a damp fingertip, I went in search of John, who had disappeared from
the dining room. Nothing appealed to me more than curling up in a ball and going
to sleep, but Nonnie needed my attention first. John was sweeping the front
porch when I found him, and he gave me directions to the boarding stables but
took Nonnie’s saddlebags from me first. Once I saw to her needs, I trudged back
to the inn. A full belly and lack of sleep turned my bones to lead.
Have I
ever felt this tired before in all my life? No. Definitely not
.

Moira gave me a plain, but clean room and left a bundle of
linens for the sofa. I bounced on the edge of the bed, testing its comfort, and
peered out the window at the sinking sun. Without hunger or other errands to
distract me, the worry for Gideon’s protracted absence pressed on me. I found
myself pacing the room, rather than falling into the bed.

A full ewer, a basin, and a small cake of soap in a dish
rested on a short washstand by the bed. The soap smelled harsh and astringent,
but it cleaned my face and hands and left a mild tingle on my skin. A mirror
hanging on the wall over the basin reflected the frightfulness of my hair,
straggling from a braid strewn with dirt and twigs. My thoughts had been too
consumed with escape and survival to worry about grooming.

I untied Gerda’s ribbon and shook my head to loosen the
plait. In my rush to leave Fallstaff, I had neglected to pack a comb or brush, I
smooth the dark strands as best I could and remove bits and pieces of trash.
Without Gerda’s expertise, any attempt to fix my hair would have been pitiful,
anyway.

My thoughts lingered on my beloved nursemaid. I missed her
and wondered if she, Stephen, and their children had managed to escape. Her
husband had family in Mann, the next village closest to Glennich. Had they gone
there to seek refuge? Wherever they went, I hoped they had made their way to
safety.

After all my fussing, Gideon still hadn’t arrived and my gut
cramped from prolonged fretting, probably also because of how fast I had eaten
dinner. Something had gone wrong—I was certain of it.
Should I wait out the
night and start for Braddock in the morning on my own, or go back and search
for Gideon now?

The answer was obvious. With swift feet, and a belly full of
hot supper to restore me, I hurried to Nonnie’s stable. The hostler and his
young assistants had disappeared or gone home, so I found my tack and saddled her
myself. She refused to hold still while I tightened her girth, and I poked her
gums until she accepted the bit.

“I know, my girl. You deserve your rest, and I promise you’ll
get it. But
please.
Gideon needs your help. He saved us, and I figure we
owe it to him.”

Whether Nonnie agreed with me or not, she trotted out of the
stable without further complaint, and when I put my heels to her side, she
streaked like the wind.

The sun completed the last of its vertical plunge as I rode
out of Thropshire. The light of an almost full moon revealed a gray stripe of
path woven through the black fabric of the hillside, helping me navigate. We
ran so fast, Nonnie nearly crashed into Gespenst before I saw him. The horse’s
black coat blended into the night, and only his eyes reflecting the moonlight
gave him away.

“Gideon?” I fumbled for his shoulder.

His slumped form recoiled, and he grunted. His head rose
from where it had sunk between his shoulders. “Evie?” His voice was thin and
hoarse.

“Gideon, what happened?”

“You were supposed to stay in Thropshire.”

“Humph, you must not be hurt too badly if you have energy to
chide me.”

His head slumped again, and his weight shifted to one side,
threatening to send him to the ground. I grabbed his shoulder and braced
against him, using all my strength to keep him in his seat. Nonnie sidestepped
as balance shifted. We supported Gideon until he recovered his balance and sat
straighter in his saddle.

“How badly are you hurt?” I asked.

“I hit my head.”

“Is that all?” It seemed as though he was fighting to hold
on to Gespenst, and to consciousness in general, but was too stubborn to admit
it. I searched for his hands and found his fingers, rough and cool, curled over
his saddle horn.
He’s in no state for interrogations
, I told myself and
packed the rest of my questions away for later. Then I eased the reins from his
fingers, and he did not resist.
It’s not like him to accept help from
anyone—especially not from me.

We returned to Thropshire in silence. The town’s residents
had settled for the night, and streetlights burned along the main avenue. Dim lights
burned in only a few windows. When we reached the inn, I tied our horses to the
post and sidled up to Gideon as he struggled to dismount. He managed to shift
his weight and slide from the saddle, but his knees buckled when his feet hit
the ground.

I grabbed him and struggled to keep him from slumping
completely into the dirt. “Gideon,” I hissed in his ear. “Gideon, wake-up.”

Faced with the prospect of lugging his huge frame into The Silver
Goose and up a flight of stairs to our room, I swore in an exceedingly
un-princess-like manner. “Damn it.... This is
impossible
.”

My own knees threatened to buckle under the burden of his
immense weight, and realized I was crying when a hot tear rolled down my cheek.
After wiping my face, I shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Gideon. I can’t do this
without your help.”

He remained still and silent. If not for his labored
breathing, I might have mistaken him for dead.

“What’s all this trouble, then, miss? That
is
you, isn’t
it?” Moira’s take-charge voice rang out like the song of a saving angel.

“Oh, Moira. He’s passed out, and he won’t wake up.”

“Has he been in his drink, then?”

“In his drink? No. He’s hurt. He says he’s hit his head, but
I think it might be worse than that.”

“I’ll say. Let me get John and a light, and we’ll see what
we can do about fixing him up.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” Tears threatened to seep out again,
but from relief this time. “So much for being inconspicuous,” I muttered to
Gideon, but he didn’t respond.

Moira returned with John, who had managed to throw on a pair
of pants under his nightgown. In other circumstances his attire might have made
me laugh, but I was too grateful for his help to think of making fun. Moira had
brought a lantern, and its light revealed Gideon’s condition was far worse than
a mere bump to his head. A great bloody gash marred his forehead, and his left
eye had swollen shut. I hoped those were the worst of his injuries, but I
suspected otherwise.

Moira held the lantern closer to Gideon’s face. “Poor lad.
He’s been given a terrible thump.”

John said nothing but grunted and hauled Gideon up by the
shoulders in a surefooted way. Moira supported Gideon under his knees and
together the two hoisted him off the ground and carried him into the little
dining room. They deposited him on a long table at the edge of the room.

“Let’s get a better look at him, shall we?” Moira turned up
the gas lights. So much dried blood caked Gideon’s hair and clothing that I
wondered how he could still be alive. She unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a
small hole on his side, still oozing blood. A slow forming bruise ringed the
wound.

“Oooh, goodness,” she hissed. “That looks like a bullet
hole. I do hope it missed his rib and went clean through.” She pressed her
fingers to the wound, and Gideon jerked awake, squalling in a hoarse and broken
voice.

He reached for me. “
Evie
.”

“Quiet,” Moira told him. “You might as well pass out again.
Nothing that comes next will be too pleasant for you.”

Her words worked like an enchantment. Gideon nodded and
closed his eyes. A moment later, he was out again, his breathing shallow, but
steady.

Moira looked up at me with questioning eyes. “Looks like
your brother must have been waylaid by some nasty characters. Bandits maybe.
Happens from time to time. Good thing you missed the trouble, isn’t it?”

Something in her tone sounded funny. She eyed me sideways
before glancing at my “brother.” Did she suspect more?

“Quite good,” I said.

“We’ll clean him up, stitch and bandage his wounds, make a
poultice against infection, and then get him into bed. In the morning, we’ll
feed him something and see how he feels. I don’t reckon he’ll die in his sleep.”
Her comforting words left me feeling uncertain, but I agreed with her plan.
While she bustled about, gathering supplies, John mumbled something about
putting on a kettle and disappeared through a doorway at the side of the dining
room.