The Other Caewen was a long way behind her now. Not forgotten, but safely put away into a mental place where she did not have to think about that particular problem at this particular moment.
Caewen was doing everything she could to focus simply on the present moment. Looking at clouds trailing over the sky. Watching a pheasant cross a field–too far off to hunt, unfortunately. A bit of pheasant would be a nice change over the fire. She paid attention to the standing stones too. There were more of them along the road and capping the hilltops too. This whole area must have been a ritual landscape once, but in devotion to what god or demon, Caewen could not guess.
After some while she found another of the circles.
The stones stood in a wild place, a small distance off the road, buried in grass as deep as Caewen’s calves, and enclosed by woods behind. Farther along the road she found two more of the recently blood-smeared stones. Both of these were crowned with skinned stag pelts, complete with skull, vacant eyes and antlers. More than a few flies buzzed in bumping, half-blind circles. Because the stones were about the width and height of a large man, the deer skins draping over the top gave an appearance of primeval priests dressed up in ritual clothing. It was a remarkably effective illusion from a distance–the trick was convincing to the point that Caewen even thought, for a moment, that she did see some of the more distant stones move and stir. She stood for a time, examining their lines and harsh, grey surfaces. She even tasted the air for magic, drawing in a deep breath, and then reached out her fingers, not quite touching the surface of the rock, but feeling for any trace of old woven patterns hidden there.
But she found nothing. If there was enchantment on the stones, it was too subtle for what few sorcerous senses Caewen had picked up in the casting of spells.
In the end, she decided that the monuments had no deeper magic. And yet, she still had an unpleasant feeling of there being something nearby, a presence. She looked around, at the empty-seeming hills and woodlands beyond. Perhaps these were little more than scarecrows to frighten off bandits or wandering strong-thieves, wood-bogles or some other scarle-creature?
In any case, what bothered her most was simply: who was draping the skins? There hadn’t been a house or hamlet in sight all day. She had not even seen a twist of smoke from a fireplace. Not a single noise of a farmstead–near or far–disturbed the air. No sound of geese, nor sheep, nor even the bark of a dog. No cows lowing in the pristine distance. Searching about in the thick, dewy grass, she saw no sign of footsteps, no trails in the dirt.
She left the stones to their mystery and went back to the road, but after another hour even the road was grassy for the most part, marked only by two deep muddy ruts where the occasional wagon must roll.
After walking for about a league, and in this time seeing no sign of the stones, Caewen thought perhaps that she might be out of the weird landscape. But then, just as she mulled on this, here was another stone. This upright was planted dead in the midst of the road, and it was huge. Much larger than any other she had seen, including the village stone with its wicker goddess. Hidden by a curve in the road, the massive stone seemed to leap into view all at once. This gave Caewen a start. She stopped dead, thinking for a brief moment that one of the stone-skinned, ice-haired giants of the north had come down to stand on the road.
Instead of the blood-stained skins, the great stone had about it the heap upon heap of red and gold flowers in various states of freshness and decay. Thus far, she had not seen a stone with both antlers and flowers. It was one or the other… perhaps were there two cults here? Each taking down the offerings of the other, and putting up their own god-leavings. She’d seen stranger things in less strange lands.
After a time regarding the stone, she said, “What do you make of these?”
“Tssch,” said Fetch, and “tssh,” before answering her. “Petty magics only, tsssch, or attempts at magic. Tssch. There is nothing woven here that a child could not weave.”
“A grim and bloody-handed child,” said Caewen. “And another child who is fond of flowers. I don’t like blood magic. Sorcerers start with the blood of beasts but also finish up with the blood of people.” She hunted about and found a skull and hide discarded in the long grass, not far off. This one had also been burned, but the fire had not fully burned. Perhaps a rain-shower had come by, putting it out. In any instance, there was enough of the head left for Caewen to study the dead staring stag face. “What is the intent do you think? Are these wardings? Tribal conjurings?. And why are they being put up and taken down again? Or is this something else?”
“I don’t know,” replied the shadow-thing. “Tsch. Too tattered. Too broken. There’s nothing of any real power to sniff at. Fakery,” whispered the darkness-thing, “Untruths. Ill-made spells.” It retreated deeper into the bag so that the flap of leather slumped back into place, hiding it from the day’s light. “Best move on,” came its muffled voice. “Nothing of note, tassh, tssch, tsch.”
But as Fetch said this something whisked past Caewen’s cheek drawing a fluttering line of pain on her skin. She touched her face on instinct and found a smear of blood. It took a moment to realise that an arrow was sticking in the grassy earth nearby. She turned and saw a group of men coming down a hillslope in the near distance. Behind them, and atop the hill, stood a massed thicket of tall black pines: presumably the men had been camped within to watch the road. If they had meant to kill her, they had only narrowly missed. If that first arrow was meant only as a warning, the archer was either remarkably skilled or remarkably unlucky. She had come very close to getting an arrow in the face.
The men were dressed in a crude get-up of makeshift armour. They carried mostly billhooks and axes. Four of them had long daggers and simple shields. She was wondering what to do, fight or run, when there appeared over the hilltop another member of the company. He was trailing behind the others, observing or commanding it seemed. This man was quite unlike the others. He was dressed head to toe in red and grey mail, and he sat atop a horse caparisoned in the same colours. At his flank was a shield painted with a red swan on a grey field. His face was entirely hidden by a closed helmet. Although the armed mob looked like rabble, the horsed man had the appearance of a knight. He watched impassively as the men called and yelled, waved their weapons and advanced. Two more arrows flew and fell, but both of these were much wider of the mark, disappearing into the grass some way to Caewen’s left. The first near miss might have been more a matter of luck than skill? That was good.
As the ragtag militia advanced, Caewen discovered she was in no mood to run or talk.
The last few days had left her deep in frustration and irritation. The prospect of a good fight felt suddenly very appealing.
She drew her sword and strode with purpose towards the on-comers. As she walked, she summoned up a little of Fetch’s power, conjuring a handful of burning sparks of shadow that curled and twisted around her on the air.
If they were uncertain before, now they were outright wary.
Caewen could feel the warm wetness spreading down her cheek now too. She increased her pace, cutting a direct path towards them. She swept her sword right and left and right again in front of her, loosening her arm. She felt hard, cold purpose fix in her chest. She felt the song of the sword trickle through her fingers and infect her blood, her flesh, her brain. The blade was the product of old sorcery, and it sang silently in her head as she moved it back and forth. Her cloak of woven forget-me-nots billowed and flapped behind her. Blood from the arrow-nick made a wet warmth on her cheek. Magic crackled at her every step. And soon her sword ceased its soft songs and started into to a silent scream-chant, begging for fury and the delightful dance of war. She must have looked like a goddess coming up the hill, enraged and enthroned in magic.
And yet, despite this, three of the more bold attackers charged her. The others seemed to think better of it, and readied arrows or took out throwing axes from their belts, or readied spears. With quick, clean cuts she brought down the three who had decided to meet her. It was over before she even registered what was happening. She did not pull her blows, but killed each man quickly, efficiently, and without fuss. Each of them was dead before they fell to the ground.
That did make the others pause.
One of them coughed, nervously. Another looked back over his shoulder at the man on horseback. He remained where he was, perfectly motionless, deathly still.
She wondered if maybe she did see the knight tense–very slightly–in his armour… though it was difficult to tell, given the encasement of iron and steel.
Caewen looked again at the fright-faced band of ragged men. They looked thin and ill-fed. She looked at the knight. Then back.
Although she’d have happily danced herself into a fair fight, this did not promise to be much different to a slaughter. Even through her red-visioned curtain of anger, Caewen knew that she would regret coldly murdering a mob of farmhands and stable-boys, even if they were turned to brigandry. She put a testing foot forward, and at that the armoured man raised a mailed palm and slapped it against his thigh. The gauntlet made a noise that rang oddly hollow and metallic. It must have been a signal for retreat. The rest of this rough band fell back at once, weapons raised to guard themselves, but otherwise scurrying as fast as they could up the hill. She watched them go. The horse turned, and whisked its tail as it trotted uphill and vanished under the shadows of the endless swarms of old pines. Man and horse were quickly followed by the rest of the brigands. Soon there was nothing to suggest that they had been there at all except for a few crushed trails in the grass and a few upturned clods of pine needles.
She stared at the dark woods, and then back at the stone, the flowers of red and gold, and then back again to the forest. It was possible that the rabble had set up skins and flowers simply in order to draw a curious traveller to a halt for long enough to ambush them. A peculiar ruse… but maybe? She couldn’t quite convince herself. What was more, there was something about the knight that had seemed a bit unsettling. The red and grey of his armour reminded her of the red and grey of fresh blood on a stone.
Perhaps she was wrong about their purpose? She had assumed they had come down from the hill to waylay a long traveller… but maybe they were coming to the stone. Perhaps, she thought, they were here to burn the flowers and put up the deer skins again? Maybe they had mistaken her for an opposing cultist?
Her cheek hurt where the arrow grazed it, but she touched it and found it was only a shallow graze. It had already stopped bleeding.
Seeing no more danger, Caewen cleaned her sword, searched the bodies, found nothing of any worth, and set off on the road again eastward. She left the bodies where they were on the assumption that their friends would be back to bury them eventually. The sun was at her back as she walked. The dusk was gathering more and more of the grey clouds into its cloak-hems now. AT least there was no hint of more rain. She had not enjoyed her last soaking. The wind was cooling, not cold. All in all, it felt like it would be a pleasant evening–assuming there were no more run-ins with wandering armed men.
But of course, because Caewen was Caewen, she also couldn’t help thinking about the three dead men she had left in the long grass behind her. She couldn’t help thinking about how they would not get to see the sunset tonight, or sing a song around the fire under the stars, or take a drink of ale or wine or whatever it was they drank in these lands.
The Other Caewen was right.
She really just couldn’t help herself. Those men would very likely have killed her. Or done worse, and then killed her. Or they might have decided to keep her alive for future amusement, or as a drudge, or a slave in what bandit lair they kept. As a rule, robbers in lonely places are not good people. And yet she still felt bad for having killed them as she felt warmth upon her back and a light wind against her brow. She really just couldn’t help herself.