Whoever was spying on him, thought Ondeth, could at least be civil and introduce himself. Ondeth could definitely use some help.
The boys were out tending their snares. Ondeth’s younger brother Villiam was hurrying to finish his own house. Two days from now, the younger Obarskyr would begin the slow hike eastward to the rough-hewn, swampy port of Marsember, where the rest of his family would arrive. Perhaps Suzara would be happier with a few more women about.
Suzara wasn’t the mysterious watcher, of that he was certain. She had enough to do at the moment. Their last argument, hissed in urgent whispers in the depths of the night before, had been the worst so far.
“At least we could go back to Marsember!” she’d implored him, her head resting on his massive, hairy chest. She wouldn’t argue in front of the boys, so Ondeth lost sleep as they fought in whispers so as not to wake the others.
“When you first saw Marsember, you called it a poisoned swamp town,” he’d replied wearily.
“It is,” she said harshly, “but at least there are people there! Real people-not ghosts and goblins waiting beyond the trees.”
“There are no ghosts here,” said Ondeth, recognizing where this argument was going. Their disputes had begun to travel well-worn paths. “We are the first men and women here. It’s a chance for a new beginning.”
“I know there are ghosts. They’re watching from the woods.” Fear pervaded her tone, as it always did when she spoke of eyes in the trees.
“There’s no one out there,” Ondeth reassured her. ‘Well, perhaps some elves out hunting, but nothing else. Give it a full year, then we’ll decide.”
“I have already decided,” said Suzara. “I’m only waiting for you to agree.”
“We are staying,” said Ondeth firmly, in the iron tone of voice that signaled an end to the conversation. He had used that tone overmuch in recent days.
“So you say,” his wife hissed coldly, and he felt her jaw clench against his chest.
He curled one arm up to touch her shoulder and stroke the curving flesh there. She grasped his wrist tenderly, but held to it firmly. She’d not let him work his charms on her this evening, to cozen and calm her and convince her to stay. She would not let him reassure her that there were no strangers lurking in the forest waiting to slay them, that the crops they’d planted would bear rich yields, and that the vast stretches of land were better than the cramped city warrens they’d come from.
And when her ragged, angry breathing had at last grown long and measured, Ondeth Obarskyr looked into the darkness and wondered if he had been right in dragging Suzara and the boys all this way, to a small hold hedged by dark woods in the wild heart of the Realms.
He needed the boys to help him build, and he couldn’t leave Suzara behind alone, as Villiam had done with his Karsha. Yet she might wither and die here. Marsember was no more than a muddy straggle of ramshackle houses clustered around a few piers, but at least there were people for her to talk to there. They might have stayed there-or go back there now. Or perhaps further east, to Sembia. Southerners from Chondath held those towns, but it was said there were some eastern folk as well.
Or north. He’d heard the men up there had made their peace with the elves and agreed to settle the empty lands. A realm full of folk-even a rough, young place with little to buy or share, and no fine clothes or wine or idle company to enjoy-might well soothe Suzara’s concerns. Perhaps they had come too far, outstripping the support of town and farm and fellow human beings.
Perhaps when Karsha and Villiam’s eldest daughter Medaly arrived, things would be better. Perhaps in the morning, he told the darkness silently, things would be better.
But morning came, and Suzara remained distant and nervous, not sparing any of them more than a dozen words.
And now, as the last of the morning fog pulled away from the trees in tatters, Ondeth as well had gained the feeling of being watched. He thought with bitter mirth about how well wives could convince their mates of all manner of things. Perhaps it was a sort of magic women shared.
He examined the block of wood, turning it with his hardened hands. It was solid, free of fungus and rot, and its slow drying had opened a series of cracks radiating from the center. He chose the longest of them and set one of the thin iron wedges along the break.
The iron tools-wedge, hammer, and axe-were the most important things Ondeth had carried with him from Impiltur. He had his skinning knife, of course, and had bought the boys short, heavy-bladed swords of Chondathan design, but if they were going to survive here, he’d have to do more than just hunt. He’d thought of getting a steel blade for the plow, but until the first crop came in, there was nothing to sell, and therefore nothing to buy with.
He tapped a second wedge along the crack, wielding the sledge in one hand. Then he stepped back a few paces, shaking his shoulders to loosen them.
Wheeling the heavy-headed hammer in a great arc over his shoulders, Ondeth brought it down squarely on the wedge. Half its length disappeared into the wood, which jumped and quivered, and there was a satisfying crack.
Ondeth dealt another mighty blow to the first, inner wedge, and a third swing to the outer wedge again, forcing it deep into the wood. One more ought to do it.
He swung one last hammerblow, and the great chunk of hardwood split with a sound like sharp thunder. Two roughly even pieces rocked on the block, the last splinters fell away as he pulled them apart. Each could be comfortably carried. The exposed inner wood was solid, unaffected by decay. It would burn well.
The stranger was there when Ondeth looked up again. Ondeth would have started, but he wasn’t the sort of man to start.
“Morning,” he said instead, as if they both stood on a boggy street in Marsember.
“Good day,” the other man replied. He was certainly a beanpole of a fellow, slender to the point of emaciation. Yet this was no starveling, he was well groomed and wore a jacket and leggings of green linen. Elven make.
Ondeth looked into his eyes, and then back to his work. Framed by a well-clipped red beard, the stranger’s mouth was a thin line, for all the syrupy, mannered nature of his voice.
“Help you?” asked Ondeth in level tones, hauling the larger of the two halves onto the stump.
“Perhaps,” replied the stranger. “Can I ask why you’re here?”
“Have to split the logs,” said Ondeth. “They won’t do it by themselves.”
The stranger gave the burly Obarskyr farmer a brief, amused smile and said, “I mean, it looks like you’re settling here in the wolf woods.”
“Aye,” said Ondeth. “Is there a problem with that?”
“The elves claim this land for their hunting.”
“I’ve heard that. And I intend to leave them to it. I’m a horrible shot with a bow. I lost an older brother to a boar hunt back in Impiltur. Let the elves have their hunting, I’m a farmer.”
“So they’ve noticed. Other men have come into these lands, and when they chased off the deer, the elves had to act. You haven’t taken any of their prey, but you are on their land.”
Ondeth’s brow rose. “You are not an elf,” he said flatly. The lean man shrugged and held out a hand. “I am Baerauble Etharr, a friend to the elves.”
Ondeth returned his own name and shook Baerauble’s hand. The man’s grip was limp and unpracticed, as if it had been some time since he’d last used it. A small silence fell between the two men.
“May I ask why you settled here?” asked the thin man, his voice still pleasant. “I mean, both in the wolf woods and in this particular place?”
Ondeth shrugged. “Some bad times have come down on the land we came from. Plagues. Tyrants. Bad kings. The usual. When it becomes easier for a man to face goblin attacks than pay his taxes, then it’s time to take his chances with the goblins.”