The Dead God Series Collection

Chapter 3-1

Torben awoke as dawn crept its way through Burndale and bathed everything with a soft yellow light. The air was thick with the musty smell of the rain, which had fallen during the night. The moisture in the air and the raindrops that clung to the buildings and trees surrounding Bywater added a sharp edge to the morning light, and painted a glossy sheen across the village.

Sharp fingers of reflected light forced their way under Torben’s eyelids; they brought him groggily back into consciousness. He was lying on a pile of dank straw in the small stable block that abutted the Rusty Sickle. The straw was intended for the bedding down of animals, but no one in Bywater had the capital to afford a horse. The nearest one came to a horse in Burndale was the odd mule or donkey that brought some of the wealthier farmers’ produce to market, and those beasts were far too precious to be left outside the tavern.

The stable was in poor repair, as evidenced by the shafts of light that poured through the holes in the ceiling and the puddles that had accumulated on the floor beneath. For the most part, however, the stable provided comfortable enough lodging for an inebriated patron and was deemed, by Johnny, to be a suitable resting place for customers who had taken enough drink that they couldn’t face the journey home, but not enough so that they’d become troublemakers.

With a groan, Torben sat up and held his head in his hands. If he started moving, he knew that he’d feel better. He grasped a stall partition and used it as a crutch to haul himself up. As he rose to his feet, the room swam and he resisted the urge to fall back to the floor. He stood still a moment, hanging onto the beam as he fought the sick feeling that sat like a lead weight in his stomach.

After a few fraught moments, Torben felt human enough to take stock of the surroundings. As far as he could tell, the other stalls in the stable were unoccupied. The door to the stable was ajar and next to it was a bucket of water and a small loaf of bread. This was typical of the hospitality that Johnny offered his regular patrons.

He staggered to the bucket and splashed water on his face. It was shockingly cold and it made him gasp and splutter. Torben slumped down on the floor and leaned against the door lintel. Pulling off a chunk of bread, he began to chew meditatively. The bread, however, was incredibly stale and the first mouthful stuck fast in his throat. The coughing fit that followed left him doubled over on the floor as he coughed up the sawdust-dry bread.

When the coughing subsided, Torben could hear rustling sounds from one of the nearby stalls. He tried to see the source of the noise, but his eyes watered heavily, and everything in the stable was a blur. From the stall in front, Torben could make out a shape in the hay as it moved slowly towards him and grunted softly.

Suddenly the figure erupted from the straw and filled the room. Torben leapt back towards the door of the stable, desperately trying to rub the moisture from his eyes so he could see the creature clearly.

‘What in the world has gotten into you?’

The voice was familiar and as he wiped the last of the tears from his eyes, he saw the diminished figure of Gwilym standing knee-deep in the straw.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ He slumped against the wall and waited for the pounding of his heart to slow.

‘Did I scare you?’ the dwarf asked, an odd smile of satisfaction pulling at his lips.

‘I thought you’d left.’ Torben tried to make himself seem calm and composed, but he was keenly aware of the fact that he was still breathing heavily and that his face felt flushed.

‘Now why would I leave? We have a deal, remember? You were going to prove to me that you were brave enough to leave and experience a little bit of the world … unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?’ His eyes scanned Torben’s forearm, searching for the glint of silver—and, undoubtedly, looking forward to collecting his spoils from the wager.

‘No, of course I haven’t changed my mind. I was just taken aback is all.’

‘Ha, and here’s me thinking that I was going to win our little wager so easily. Glad to hear you’re still in the game.’ Gwilym strode to the bucket of water, splashed some on his face, and filled a water skin that he’d removed from his pack, buried deep within the straw.

Torben attempted to eat more of the stale bread, but did so cautiously. He watched Gwilym rescue his pack from the straw and take down his belt from the nail where it hung. It was only then that he noticed the short sword attached to the back of the dwarf’s belt; it had remained almost completely hidden from view when he was wearing the woollen jacket.

Nervously, Torben fingered his knife that he likewise carried on his belt. It seemed very small compared to the weapon that Gwilym carried, no more than a child’s toy.

Gwilym saw Torben inspecting his blade as he adjusted the belt around his waist. ‘It always pays to be prepared lad. You’d struggle to find a dwarf that doesn’t travel with a trusty seax to keep themselves safe.’ He reached behind him and drew the seax from its sheath, and gazed at his reflection. Gwilym held the weapon nonchalantly, but it still gave off a menacing air. ‘This blade has seem me through many scrapes on the road, all part and parcel of the travelling life, I’m afraid.’ He slotted the seax back into its sheath and looked directly at Torben. ‘But I’m sure you’ll discover that for yourself soon enough.’

Torben didn’t answer, but tried to look relaxed.

Gwilym pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, hoisted the pack onto his shoulders, and peered past the stable door, inspecting the tavern yard. He sniffed the morning air, then breathed deeply. ‘Right lad, we’d best be off! Can’t be wasting good daylight now, can we?’ He stepped across the threshold, leaving Torben alone in the stable.

He dithered for a second, he no longer possessed the confidence that he’d found last night. It seemed that the brash, carefree attitude had come from the bottom of a tankard. On the other hand, if the dwarf had wanted to kill him and take what little wealth he’d had on him, he could have easily done so during the night. It would have been a lot easier than luring Torben into the wilds; no one in Bywater would have intervened or stopped Gwilym had his crime been discovered. The villagers would have been far too concerned about preserving their own hides than avenging one who they barely knew, or cared about.

Torben could hear Gwilym whistling outside and this goaded him into action. He grabbed the rest of the stale bread, scooped his overcoat from the floor, and half strode, half jogged out of the stable. The lure of coin was too much for him and this seemed too good an opportunity to be missed.

Most of the people who’d frequented the Rusty Sickle the night before had been marked as drunkards when they’d returned to their homes with talk of dwarven travellers abroad in Burndale. There’d been much clucking of tongues and wagging of fingers as wives and parents warned against the tricks that strong drink could play on the mind.

It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that Torben and Gwilym attracted many stares as they walked through the centre of Bywater, following the road to the east, towards the woodland. Considering it was only an hour after dawn, the village was bustling with people going to and fro—gangs of labourers heading to the fields, women and children carrying vessels to the river to collect water, the blacksmith hammering diligently in his workshop.

Many passersby stopped dead in their tracks and stared at Gwilym as he trudged by, and many viewed Torben with suspicion. Barely concealed mutterings drifted through the village.

‘Isn’t right for that lad to be gallivanting off with strangers.’

A group of villagers began to follow Torben and Gwilym through the village. They kept their distance, but it was clear that they didn’t like the intrusion by an outsider, nor the obvious collusion of one of their own with the stranger.

‘Well,’ Gwilym said sotto voce, ‘it seems the folk round here are even friendlier in the day time.’

‘Just keep walking and don’t look them in the eyes. You don’t want to frighten them, or they might get rowdy.’

To Torben, the walk through the village was a bit of a joke. He enjoyed being the centre of attention; it made a change from people ignoring him. And what did he care if the villagers whispered about him behind his back? As they passed people, Torben nodded acknowledgements, waved a hand, and occasionally hailed someone he recognised with a greeting.

As they reached the eastern outskirts of the village, the disgruntled gaggle of villagers began to peal off, satisfied that the dwarf wouldn’t cause mischief. The murmurings of conversation continued though as the villagers dispersed, wondering what could have lead Torben to take up with such a strange outlander. Almost every conversation ended with the same conclusion: Torben had always been a bit of an odd one. Being trapped up in that tiny farm with Amos and his fiend of a wife, with no real parental figures, must have addled the poor lad’s mind. Had Torben heard any of these conclusions, he’d certainly have had a few strong words to throw back in retaliation, but he and Gwilym simply continued to stride from the village.

As they left the last house behind, the road cut a straight line through rows of fields north of Bywater. Most of the fields on this side of the village were divided into small plots, and as the soil was very poor, cultivation barely extended more than a mile-and-a-half beyond the village boundaries. Hardly anyone tended this land; the majority of labour focused on more prosperous plots to the south and west, where most of the village’s food was grown.

The few people that Gwilym and Torben came across as they followed the road were the older men too sore and world-weary to be of much use in the big work gangs and tended the scrappy vegetable and fodder patches in this part of Burndale. As a rule, they weren’t very talkative and those that did acknowledge Torben and Gwilym, only did so through a curt nod or hollow grunt.

As they passed through the fields, the road became noticeably more rugged and unkempt, and as the two figures came closer to the eastern woods, trees began to encroach the road.

‘So what exactly are you looking for out here?’ Torben broke the silence that had settled over the two of them since they’d left the village.

‘Huh?’ Gwilym had seemingly been dwelling on the xenophobic attitude of the villagers and didn’t register Torben’s question. ‘What do you mean, what am I looking for?’

‘You must have had some reason for coming out this way. There’s nothing that I know of this side of Bywater, and the road only carries on for another couple of miles.’

‘How do you know that there isn’t anything on this side of the dale? Have you ever even been to the end of the track?’

‘Well, no.’ Torben paused and scanned the area. ‘But everyone in Bywater knows that there’s nothing to the north. If there was, they’d have continued building the road.’