talien
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Nug's Farm: Prologue
The weather was frigid with a dusting of frost and ice on the road and an inch or two of snow on the earth. They passed through a couple of hamlets: Saul and Framilode. The tiny places consisted of just a dozen or so houses each. The buildings were old, ramshackle and low; they were built in stone and had thatched roofs and only a few small windows. There were no shops evident and perhaps no people.
“This reminds me of the last time the King in Yellow tried to take over Milandir,” said Kham.
There were more villages, but oddly after Framilode, there were no more signs announcing the names of the places.
“No road signs,” said Sebatian.
“No churches either,” added Beldin.
There were about ten buildings in Clotton; one in moss-covered stone was much larger than the rest. It could have been a church—indeed, there was what looked like the stump of a spire—but it was almost completely overgrown with ivy and hard to make out. There was no sign or name by the building, and the doorway itself was barricaded with a haphazard heap of rotten timber.
The village showed no sign of life: no people, no barking dogs, and no horses, sheep or cattle. There was no post office and no pub. The few cottages were ramshackle old stone affairs: some seemed to be held up by the foliage that covered them, and in one case a huge elm tree had been incorporated inside a building.
They walked south a further mile or so on the road, where they picked up a footpath. It led due east. The trek covered a bit more than three miles and took about an hour.
It was cold and dreary. The footpath rose steadily, affording a view of the forest ahead. The Tarda River was three or four miles behind them.
The countryside looked uncared for. Poor fences and hedges divided the fields. The few pieces of farm equipment they saw had been left to rust.
After another mile, there was the first evidence of life. A little way off a dozen scrawny sheep were gathered expectantly by an empty food trough, and beside them stood a farmhand staring off into space.
Sebastian pointed at the sheep. “That’s an interesting mark.” The underfed sheep were indelibly marked with a splash of black on their hindquarters to indicate ownership; the mark suggested the head of a bull or goat.
The farmhand didn’t see them right away. He was shabbily and inadequately dressed and carried a wooden bucket.
“Hello?” shouted Beldin, waving to the farmhand.
The man turned around; he was thin and ugly with big ears and protruding teeth. He set off at a fast walk toward a collection of buildings almost lost in a fold in the ground, intermittently shaking his head.
“What the hell is wrong with these villagers?” asked Kham.
“I think he’s walking towards that hamlet.”
They followed him until he went into one of the buildings and slammed the door.
The footpath went on for another mile. Isolated trees thickened as they approached Lower Clotton and Mercy Hill off to the north. The path cut through a band of forest. It was still among the trees, and there was a high, sweet smell brought by an intermittent breeze. The footpath crossed by a stream of stagnant water and then a patch of dense, black poppies, and the wood got thicker. It was lush with deep ferns, moss, and fungal growth.
“Man, I wish this headache would stop.” Kham massaged his temples.
“You feel it too?” Sebastian had one hand to his forehead.
“Yeah, it’s a distant thrumming…like a swarm of bees.”
Beldin shushed them. “We’re being watched.”
About fifty yards off in the trees, something peered at them through the trees. It moved further away: at first it looked human, stripped from the waist up, but something was wrong. The man’s legs were jointed the wrong way, like an animal’s.
The trees thinned out as they passed out of the wood. Walking down the hill, they saw the main body of the Forest of Dean. It sent out fingers to the three farms that were dotted in a line below them. The farm in the center looked in much better repair: there was glass in all the windows and the chimney belched smoke.
When they were still a few hundred yards off, the sound of barking was audible. Three big dogs ran outside. A woman came out behind them, perhaps thirty years old with short blonde hair, wearing overalls, boots, gloves, and a short coat; she looked nothing like the denizens of the countryside they’d seen so far. The dogs, bullmastiffs, ran over to her where at her word of command they became silent.
As they came closer, the sign by the gate was legible: “Nug’s Farm.”
The weather was frigid with a dusting of frost and ice on the road and an inch or two of snow on the earth. They passed through a couple of hamlets: Saul and Framilode. The tiny places consisted of just a dozen or so houses each. The buildings were old, ramshackle and low; they were built in stone and had thatched roofs and only a few small windows. There were no shops evident and perhaps no people.
“This reminds me of the last time the King in Yellow tried to take over Milandir,” said Kham.
There were more villages, but oddly after Framilode, there were no more signs announcing the names of the places.
“No road signs,” said Sebatian.
“No churches either,” added Beldin.
There were about ten buildings in Clotton; one in moss-covered stone was much larger than the rest. It could have been a church—indeed, there was what looked like the stump of a spire—but it was almost completely overgrown with ivy and hard to make out. There was no sign or name by the building, and the doorway itself was barricaded with a haphazard heap of rotten timber.
The village showed no sign of life: no people, no barking dogs, and no horses, sheep or cattle. There was no post office and no pub. The few cottages were ramshackle old stone affairs: some seemed to be held up by the foliage that covered them, and in one case a huge elm tree had been incorporated inside a building.
They walked south a further mile or so on the road, where they picked up a footpath. It led due east. The trek covered a bit more than three miles and took about an hour.
It was cold and dreary. The footpath rose steadily, affording a view of the forest ahead. The Tarda River was three or four miles behind them.
The countryside looked uncared for. Poor fences and hedges divided the fields. The few pieces of farm equipment they saw had been left to rust.
After another mile, there was the first evidence of life. A little way off a dozen scrawny sheep were gathered expectantly by an empty food trough, and beside them stood a farmhand staring off into space.
Sebastian pointed at the sheep. “That’s an interesting mark.” The underfed sheep were indelibly marked with a splash of black on their hindquarters to indicate ownership; the mark suggested the head of a bull or goat.
The farmhand didn’t see them right away. He was shabbily and inadequately dressed and carried a wooden bucket.
“Hello?” shouted Beldin, waving to the farmhand.
The man turned around; he was thin and ugly with big ears and protruding teeth. He set off at a fast walk toward a collection of buildings almost lost in a fold in the ground, intermittently shaking his head.
“What the hell is wrong with these villagers?” asked Kham.
“I think he’s walking towards that hamlet.”
They followed him until he went into one of the buildings and slammed the door.
The footpath went on for another mile. Isolated trees thickened as they approached Lower Clotton and Mercy Hill off to the north. The path cut through a band of forest. It was still among the trees, and there was a high, sweet smell brought by an intermittent breeze. The footpath crossed by a stream of stagnant water and then a patch of dense, black poppies, and the wood got thicker. It was lush with deep ferns, moss, and fungal growth.
“Man, I wish this headache would stop.” Kham massaged his temples.
“You feel it too?” Sebastian had one hand to his forehead.
“Yeah, it’s a distant thrumming…like a swarm of bees.”
Beldin shushed them. “We’re being watched.”
About fifty yards off in the trees, something peered at them through the trees. It moved further away: at first it looked human, stripped from the waist up, but something was wrong. The man’s legs were jointed the wrong way, like an animal’s.
The trees thinned out as they passed out of the wood. Walking down the hill, they saw the main body of the Forest of Dean. It sent out fingers to the three farms that were dotted in a line below them. The farm in the center looked in much better repair: there was glass in all the windows and the chimney belched smoke.
When they were still a few hundred yards off, the sound of barking was audible. Three big dogs ran outside. A woman came out behind them, perhaps thirty years old with short blonde hair, wearing overalls, boots, gloves, and a short coat; she looked nothing like the denizens of the countryside they’d seen so far. The dogs, bullmastiffs, ran over to her where at her word of command they became silent.
As they came closer, the sign by the gate was legible: “Nug’s Farm.”
