Hungry Heart - Book #4 - Ch. 25 (Patreon)

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen / Chapter Twenty / Chapter Twenty-One / Chapter Twenty-Two / Chapter Twenty-Three / Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five – The Weaver

The road to Guthran proved to be neither short, nor long. Duril wished he could pinpoint what all that story entailed, about a place without knowledge, rubbed him the wrong way, besides the obvious. Was it truly the hermit behind it all? It seemed likely, given the nature of the crime. But what would a powerful being, who thrived on the most obscure yet desirable knowledge to feed his strange habit, want with a small town of farmers and merchants?

He could see why Shearah believed it to be a trap. And if that was the truth, there had to be signs that should give away the maker of said snare. They could easily walk into it without even realizing it, and, while he knew very well that his friends counted on the strength of their bodies and the power of their wills to get out of it, he sensed that he had a right to worry.

The pleasant weather of The Quiet Woods was starting to turn into something different that reminded Duril of the season changes in Whitekeep. His and Varg’s place had paid its dues to its northern location. Fall was a short affair, and winter came fast. By now, the ruins of the town had to be covered in early wintertime frost, a thin layer coating everything with a gossamer-like film.

His heart throbbed in his chest. So many people’s lives, wasted. A few good ones had escaped that dark fate and taken refuge in Fairside with Toru’s help and theirs. Duril shook his head. As much as a part of his heart wanted him to stop, find a rock to sit on and cry his heart out, he knew that the only true path lay ahead. Hekastfet’s work wasn’t finished, far from it. And he wasn’t the only one they had to watch out for, since it seemed as if others wanted to commit their fair share of wrongdoing.

If the hermit was there, how were they going to convince him to surrender the knowledge he had to have about terminating Hekastfet for good? The odds set them against him, so it surely felt like a difficult endeavor to tackle.

Duril looked around. Grass blades were folded toward the ground, swinging in the chilly wind as if they were taking their last breaths. Their color had also changed from a deep green to a sickly yellow, and that, in itself, was a strange thing. The grass looked as if it had been dried by a merciless sun, and it made little sense, since the air was saturated with a fine mist. He dragged his foot through a small patch of grass, and the rustling sound it gave assured him that it was dry and almost dead.

“There’s little point in searching for herbs,” Claw said, appearing by his side and startling him. “The lands around here look like they’re ready for winter.”

“Indeed. Don’t you find it strange?” Duril asked. “We haven’t walked that far from The Quiet Woods, and it appears that this place is a lot colder already.”

Claw nodded to confirm that it he thought so, too. “Powerful beings must be at work, to turn the ground into this unyielding soil covered in dry grass. And yet,” he sniffed, making his nostrils flare, “the air is heavy with rain water. While there’s not one cloud in the sky.” He pointed upward, and Duril followed his gesture with his eyes.

“I believe that the more we know, the better our chances are of getting to the bottom of it.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It’s not just the knowledge of the people being stolen, or so it seems. Whoever is behind all this, they must be weaving a trap like no other.”

Duril remained silent. Yes, it was what he thought, as well. And the same thing worried him like he couldn’t recall being so worried in their recent history, which said a lot, given what they had been through.

***

The first houses appeared three days after they had left The Quiet Woods, or better said, on the morning of the fourth day. Since Varg had told them that they should save their strength for the confrontation they might have to face once they reached Guthran, Toru had grudgingly accepted using the nights for rest and sleep.

The first thing that struck him as unusual was how deserted the place seemed to be. Given the latest drop in temperature, one should have seen thin wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses with their slanted roofs and thick walls.

There was nothing of the kind, and as much as he tried to catch a whiff of human activity, be it making a fire, or cooking food, his nose didn’t lie. It was as if the entire place was dead.

“Do you think we arrived too late?” he asked. The morning haze engulfed the houses, making them look as if they were suspended in the air, each of them a mark of solitude.

“We cannot know that unless we check,” Varg suggested. He turned into his wolf and rushed ahead.

“Claw, stay with Duril,” he asked and followed his friend’s example.

They were running side by side, and Toru turned his head to read in Varg’s eyes what they should expect once they really reached Guthran. But the wolfshifter’s eyes were unreadable, only alert and seeking.

As they closed in the distance between them and those first houses, Toru noticed another thing. There was a winding muddy path crossing through the settlement, splitting it in two. It looked unkempt, but that wasn’t a big surprise. After all, the entire town appeared to have been abandoned.

“Where do you think all the people went?”

Varg didn’t reply right away. “I’d like to think that at least some of them realized what was going on and rushed to safety.”

“Stop, stop,” someone called right in front of them, taking them by surprise.

How come they hadn’t seen that human until now? For Toru, it felt as if the stranger had just appeared out of thin air. He was a small man; based on his height alone, he could have been mistaken for a child. But the beard he wore fell down to his waist which had the girth of someone who didn’t mind indulging in the pleasure of good and long meals. The hair on his head was mussed and had an indefinite color, somewhere between grey and brown. He wasn’t an old man yet, but he wasn’t young, either.

He wore a leather vest that came down to his knees, and boots that covered his shins, scuffed from too much use. The gloves on his hands appeared very similar to those blacksmiths wore when handling the tools of their trade, and, otherwise, his arms were bare, showing bulky muscles that pointed to his having a profession that required a lot of strength to carry heavy things or drop a hammer on an anvil over and over until it honed the steel of a weapon to perfection.

“Shapeshifters,” the man called again and waved his arms, although they had already stopped and were watching him curiously. “This place is cursed.”

“Who are you?” Varg asked. “And what do you mean, cursed?”

Toru caught on right away. So, his friend didn’t want them to let slip what their business there was. It was good to pretend not to know anything for the time being. Also, it was mighty strange that this welcome party of one didn’t show any signs that his knowledge that all things human had been depleted by a dark force with ill intent.

“My name is Thamolit. I’m a weaver here, in Guthran.”

Toru traded a glance with Varg. The short man looked nothing like a weaver, or, at least, what he believed a weaver should look like. The weaver’s eyes were dark and moved from him to Varg, and back again, as if he was still debating if they were friends or foes. Upon closer inspection, Toru noticed the big needle stuck into the man’s belt in what looked like its own scabbard. Only its shape made it so, because otherwise, it could very well have been mistaken for a spear, that long and thick it was compared to any needle Toru had seen in his entire life.

“You’re looking at my trustworthy Gurelin,” Thamolit said and caressed the thing. “Too bad it cannot weave a cure for the curse that fell upon this place. Who are you, strangers? And what are you doing here? Traders have stopped coming through, as they’re afraid that they might catch whatever ill has fallen upon our town.”

“We’re travelers,” Varg replied. “My name is Varg, and this is Toru.”

Why was Varg giving away their real names? Toru wondered. Maybe he considered it wise. It had to be so, since the wolfshifter rarely did things without a reason.

“Varg, Toru,” the weaver said, repeating their names as if he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t forget them soon.

“Can you tell us more about what happened here? Where are all the people?” Varg demanded to know.

“They sleep during the day.” Thamolit looked at them again, looking like a man unsure of whether to disclose everything he knew or hold back. Eventually, the latter pull won. “Not too long ago, just as the town was getting ready for the harvest, a dark mist covered our fields. We thought it was an ill omen, letting us know of a harsh winter to come. By nightfall, that day, all the souls in Guthran had begun behaving strangely.”

“How so?” Varg continued to inquire patiently.

“At first, it only looked like they were forgetting things here and there. But then, it got worse. One man drove his cart right into the freshly gathered hay and fell face first into it, without showing one sign of trying to avoid his fall. Another dropped to his knees and started eating from the ground, searching with his hands in the soil for worms.”

“Did you witness all this?” Varg asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Thamolit replied and shook his head as a means of apology. “But the few that had escaped that collective folly and reached the town recalled everything in frightening detail. I couldn’t believe what they were saying, so I decided to go to the fields and see the disaster befalling our lands with my own eyes.”

They had to look truly trustworthy, if Thamolit was so willing to describe to them the predicament of his town, without showing further curiosity as to who they were and what their intentions were.

Toru took advantage of the fact that it looked like no one minded that Varg was in charge of the conversation and began examining their surroundings. The houses seemed deep in sleep, and, if what Thamolit was saying was true, they weren’t empty. Dozens and dozens of the town’s inhabitants had to be in there, deep in their slumber.

He made a move toward one of the better looking abodes, wanting to see for himself if it was true that no one was awake except for the strange weaver.

“It wouldn’t be wise to wake them up,” Thamolit warned him. He thumbed his huge needle, as if he felt tempted to use it, in case Toru didn’t obey.

He could just ignore the signs and do whatever he wanted, but another glance traded with Varg convinced him that, for now, they would just play along until they found out more. “What happens if anyone tries to rouse them from their sleep?” he asked.

“They’re hungry,” Thamolit explained. “All the damn time. And today’s gruel is far from being ready. I had to stop my cooking when I heard you setting foot inside our town.”

Heard them? Toru examined the weaver some more. His ears had a strange shape, tapering upwards to a pointy tip, out of place on that head, by how delicate they appeared to be.

“Will you turn away and continue your travels?” Thamolit asked.

Toru was unsure whether the weaver meant that as a very suspicious request, or sought a genuine answer to his question.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to help,” Varg offered.

Thamolit’s eyes lit up with gratitude. It made him look a lot more pleasant and younger. Toru didn’t know what to make of him just yet. “Any help is welcome. No one so far wanted to enter Guthran once they learned that everyone had gone mad.”

“Is that what you think?” Varg inquired. “That the people, your townsfolk, lost their minds?”

Thamolit shook his head. “I do not know. It’s far from me to understand and explain what’s happening. I always trust in what my eyes and my own head tell me. And they just tell me that it’s one strange thing that happened here. There might,” he said, dropping his voice and stealing glances around, “be some magic involved, and not the good kind if you know what I mean.”

Toru had to crane his neck, and Varg followed his example, to listen to the weaver’s whispers.

“How come you weren’t affected?” Varg continued his inquiry.

Thamolit beckoned to them to follow. “You might be hungry, travelers. Since I have to do everything myself, I’m afraid breaking your fast with me will seem a dull affair. Nonetheless, you’re welcome to it, once it’s ready.”

Toru wasn’t the only one to notice that the weaver hadn’t answered the question. Just when he was about to repeat it, Thamolit began talking again. “Ay, I’d say that it’s as strange as it comes that they all turned into mindless beasts overnight while I remain with my mind as sharp as my Gurelin. But it must be because I’m not from around here.” He laughed as if he had just been thinking of a good joke. “To think that they’d all end up depending on me and my doubtful cooking.”

That wasn’t something to laugh about. If Thamolit was a bad cook, Toru was sure he’d very much like to skip breakfast altogether. However, he couldn’t just refuse, now that they were following their host down the muddy path that split the town in two.

The smell of grains being cooked slowly over the fire convinced him that the weaver was selling himself short. Even though they still had food stashed in Duril’s bag from what Willow and the others at The Quiet Woods had prepared for them, he found himself wanting to try Thamolit’s cooking.

“It will take a little bit longer,” the weaver said and crouched by the fire lit under the huge pot.

The way the little yard looked reminded Toru of Agatha’s humble abode. The hovel that rose just behind the fire looked modest compared to the other dwellings he had seen so far in Guthran, and that said a lot.

The weaver’s home looked rundown, but neat. Tools used for plowing the fields lined the wall of a small shed to the right. Under them, baskets filled with wheat could be seen.

“I’m doing all the harvesting as fast as I can manage. If you could help me with that after I’m done with the cooking, I’d be grateful.”

So, that was the kind of help Thamolit thought they were offering. Little did he know, Toru mused, but decided that it wasn’t wise to tell the man the truth about who they were. After all, at the moment, they knew as little as their host. Just flapping their mouths about being heroes wouldn’t bring anyone any good.

He thought for a moment about what Willow had told him about how people didn’t know who he was and what he had accomplished might make him feel bitter. To be a hero meant fighting every day for good. And, in this case, he hadn’t done any good yet.

***

Varg eyed the boiling pot and sniffed. “You shouldn’t talk badly about your cooking, Thamolit. It’s not ready yet, and I can feel my mouth watering from the smell. If you couldn’t tell already, both Toru and I are the kind to like a steak more than anything else a cook has on offer.”

Thamolit let out a hearty laugh and stirred the pot. The steam from the cooked food was making his cheeks look shiny, lending his entire face a benevolent look. If the weaver was the hermit in disguise, Varg had to admit that he was one hell of a master in tricking people to believe whatever he wanted.

Despite all that, he wasn’t willing to let his guard down. The town was eerie in its silence, asleep as it was and gone from the world, at least for the time being. What happened when night fell? He had a mind to ask Thamolit, but decided that it could wait until they had their breakfast.

They had left Duril and Claw behind, and maybe now their two friends were wondering what they were doing or if they needed help or both. A part of him wanted to keep some things concealed from their charitable host. For now, he hoped that Duril and Claw would believe their not returning to be a sign that they had to take their time and see what this strange place was all about.

Thamolit interrupted his train of thought by handing him a small bowl filled to the brim, along with a wooden spoon. Varg gave him his thanks and took the bowl, sniffing discreetly to see if the food was safe to eat.

The weaver grabbed his own and began shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth. When he noticed Varg looking at him, he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and smiled ruefully. “Working the fields day in day out makes one a hungry beast.”

Toru was already half-way through his gruel, and the satisfied smile on his lips encouraged Varg to take a bite, too. Whatever the hermit wanted to achieve, it couldn’t involve poisoning their food. Shapeshifters were mostly impervious to any kind of poison, and killing them served no purpose.

That meant, of course, that the weaver could still be Te’cla, coming at them with innocent pretenses. He dipped his spoon into the bowl and took a mouthful. His tongue reveled in the taste, rich and earthy, so warm and soothing for the soul. He smiled against his better judgement. Someone who cooked such food couldn’t be evil. Or he had just become easy to trick by someone with enough wit to take such an approach.

“Can I have more?” Toru handed the weaver his empty bowl.

“Sure,” the weaver replied kindly and filled Toru’s bowl again. “You see,” he said, now that he seemed to be satiated, “at night, they rouse from their sleep and they’re very hungry. All night I harvest, and all day I cook.” He shook his head as if in awe of his own lack of proper sleep.

Varg couldn’t deny that his heart felt pulled toward this stout man with strange ears. Yes, he had noticed them. He couldn’t recall ever seeing someone walking on two legs with such ears. They seemed to be quite sensitive, prickling and even moving when catching a sound here and there.

“So, you don’t watch over them when they’re awake?” he asked.

Thamolit shook his head. “I did, at first, and only from a far. It put the fear of hellfire in my bones to watch them. They behave like beasts. They growl and they move on the ground on their hands and feet, like they have forgotten how to walk properly as people do. I don’t think it would be a good idea to get too close, and there’s so much to do, anyway.”

Varg put a hand on the weaver’s shoulder and asked. “How long do you believe you can keep going like this?”

Thamolit shrugged. “I’m the only one these people have. And I’m afraid they might starve if not for my daily, no, nightly gruel. They do eat everything. At least, they’re alive.”

“I see. I will help you out in the field. Toru will go around, see if there’s anything that might help us understand what happened here.”

Thamolit gave him a surprised look. “Of the two of you, master wolf, I would have thought you were the one with a penchant for magic.” He scratched his beard and eyed Varg carefully, as if he was pondering over how he could have been mistaken so easily.

“Neither of us has such inclinations,” Varg assured him. “But my young friend is keen about noticing things that are not what they are supposed to be. It cannot hurt.”

The look Toru gave him assured him that his young friend understood very well why he was needed to thoroughly scout the place. And let their friends know that they were caught up in discovering new things about Guthran. He could only hope that Toru would tell Claw and Duril to keep to the outskirts of the town. In case something happened to the two of them, it would be helpful to have someone who could still move freely out in the world.

Since Toru would never do something to put Duril in danger, he believed no further explanation was needed. However, just to make sure, he got to his feet. “I’ll accompany Toru for a bit and then return to you. Today, you have someone to help you out in the fields.”

Thamolit nodded with grateful eyes. “I can wait for a bit.”

Varg took Toru by the shoulders and guided him away. “Duril and Claw,” he said quickly. “I think it’s better if they stay put, away from the town.”

“But that was really good gruel,” Toru argued. “I bet they’d like to have some of it, too.”

“Yes, but I am yet unclear on what this strange weaver is all about. No matter how you look at things, his presence here is very odd. And it’s not like we can wake up the inhabitants and start asking them questions.”

Toru grinned. “Or maybe we can.”

They looked at each other for a moment. “Trying never hurt anyone. Is that how the saying goes?”

Varg somehow doubted that the flimsy shield of an old saying would be enough to protect them from the type of dark magic that had to be at play in Guthran.

“I’ll let our friends know of our plan. They can also see if there’s anything out of the ordinary happening outside the town,” Toru said and nodded, mostly to himself. “As for this place? It reeks of magic and not only. Even if I know close to nothing about the kind of things that witches weave, I can tell.”

“I’m glad to see that a bowl of good food hasn’t clouded your judgment,” Varg said with a short laugh.

Toru smiled as if that pleased him. “I’m getting wiser,” he said, puffing out his chest.

“You are,” Varg admitted. “I’ll help Thamolit with the harvest. You can take your time to sniff around. Do you think you can do a mutt’s work?” he joked.

“I have a nose,” Toru pointed at the middle of his face. “And it works better than yours.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll leave that as a tiny bone for us to pick with each other later.”

He watched as Toru walked away, the mist that was now heavier swallowing him quickly.

***

“What do you reckon?” Claw asked, as they sat, side by side, on a slanted rock. “They should have been back by now, right?”

Duril nodded and searched his bag for some bread and steak. “That means that we can have a bite while waiting for them.”

Claw received the food without saying anything else. They ate in silence, while their eyes moved toward the town covered in mist again and again.

“Is that Toru I see?” Duril asked out loud when a shape moved through the mist and appeared in front of their eyes.

“That’s him,” Claw confirmed.

They were both on their feet with the same question on their lips. “Where is Varg?”

Toru pointed over his shoulder at the desolated town. “He’s there. We met a weaver.”

“There is someone there who you can still talk to? Is he a human?”

“I’m not sure. He’s this tall,” Toru explained while holding his arm a few feet above the ground, “and he has a long thick needle he calls Gurelin.”

Duril looked at Claw, his eyes full of questions. The bearshifter shrugged. “What’s happening there? Did this weaver tell you?”

Toru nodded. “He told us all he knew, or so he said. He also made some really good gruel.”

“You don’t like gruel,” Duril pointed out.

“This was really good,” Toru insisted and then looked guiltily away. “Not as good as what you cook,” he added hurriedly.

Duril laughed softly and shook his head. “Let’s not split hairs about who’s the better cook. Now, tell us, Toru, what did you see there? What is happening?”

He and Claw listened closely while Toru told them about the strange weaver and how things stood with the poor inhabitants of Guthran.

“Varg’s not sure whether this weaver is good or bad,” Toru added at the end. “And I don’t know, either, although he looks nothing like someone who’d be evil enough to poison a good serving of gruel.”

“If it helps, you don’t look poisoned at all.”

Toru patted his belly. “My belly is full.” Then, he eyed the piece of steak in Duril’s hand. “Do you want to finish that?”

Duril shook his head in mirth and handed his close friend and lover the remainder of his food. “Now, you tell us that Varg considers it wise to keep us here, while you two are in there. Does he want us to do anything?”

“Just observe things from this side,” Toru said. “And I could tell that he knows you two will be able to find everything that there is to be found.”

Claw laughed. “Such trust. Puppy knows us well. Toru, you must be careful.” The bearshifter’s eyes moved to the sleeping town ahead. “All this doesn’t give me a pleasant feeling.”

“I must go back. Thamolit didn’t say a thing about my wanting to scout the place. He seemed happy for any help he could get. Right now, Varg is with him, out in the fields harvesting the crops.”

“If this had been any normal happening, we would have been glad to hurry to their help. But, I trust in what Varg considers to be right, given our surroundings. We will go round the town and see if there is something we should worry about.” Claw was the one to establish what needed to be done, and what part they had to play in it.

Duril agreed with him. Even if he didn’t particularly enjoy parting with Toru and Varg, he could clearly see what such a plan required. He kissed Toru briefly before allowing him to head back.

***

Varg looked at the vast fields stretching as far as his eyes could see. “Now, I understand why you said that there was a lot of work to be done. These are all Guthran’s lands?”

“Yes,” Thamolit confirmed. “They’re hardworking people, the townsfolk. Before this curse befell them, they could harvest all this you can see in just one week, while receiving little help from anyone else.”

Varg shrugged. “Then, we just need to get to work.” He grabbed one of the large baskets and turned toward Thamolit.

The weaver’s intelligent eyes shone with something new he hadn’t noticed before. His eyes fell to Gurelin, the trusty needle, but it all happened a moment too late. Thamolit moved so fast, he couldn’t even see any of what happened.

He only felt the sting, right in the middle of his body and looked down to see the large needle poking out of his belly. There was no pain, but he moved his hands to grab the needle and pull it out.

“Sleep now, master wolf,” Thamolit said in the same benevolent voice that now sounded so at odds with what he was doing.

Varg felt the basket falling from his hands and then he stumbled backward and ended up on his back. His eyes remained wide open, and the following moment, Thamolit’s face appeared in front of them. “I am so terribly sorry for this, but I cannot risk it,” the weaver said.

Varg couldn’t move but he hadn’t lost all of his senses just yet. Thamolit was moving around, and then he was back, and Varg realized that the weaver was rolling him onto a large cloth, wrapping him in it slowly, with so much care that, once more, didn’t align well with his murderous intentions.

Then, he heard the sound of someone ripping through something.

“We are going to weave you in nice and tightly,” Thamolit said under his breath, while fiddling with the roll Varg had become, tucked inside the cloth. “And you will have the most beautiful dreams in your entire life.”

Varg willed his lips to move, but to no avail. Whatever poison the weaver had used on him, it stole his power to speak. His eyes closed, ignoring his struggle to keep them wide open.

When he opened them again, he was out in a forest, and rays of sun were peeking through the branches of a large tree. It smelled of summer, and Varg realized as he moved his front paws tentatively that he was not himself or, better said, he was himself but at a different age.

“Varg,” someone called out to him, a warm, well-known voice. “You made it!”

He knew exactly what the female voice meant. He had just shifted into his wolf for the first time.

TBC

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