Lan again

He did not realise that he had fallen asleep until he awoke. A heavy weight crashed into his stomach, winding him like a bad fall.

The fox from before stood on his chest. Its teeth were bared, glistening in the scattered moonlight. Its breath misted in the cold air as it growled. Its shriek, eerie and banshee-like from a distance, rattled Lan’s hearing so that he felt his face might melt.

Before he could make a move for a weapon, it sank its teeth into his shoulder and threw him to one side. He rolled in the dirt, nearly losing his sword as he went.

Pushing himself into a crawling position, he tossed his head to shake his fair hair out of his face. The fox was standing at the base of the tree, where he had lain a moment before. It crouched low to the ground, snarling. Its eyes glowed bright yellow.

Lan scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword as he did so. Torn grass fluttered from his hair to his shoulders as he faced the fox.

The glow from its eyes grew to overtake its face, then spread over its entire body. As the light grew, it began to flicker like a flame, but the opacity of the light was no more obscure than a sunbeam.

It dawned on Lan that perhaps neither he nor even Fetlock had had anything to do with the fox’s earlier aggression.

He looked about for mushroom rings and other signs of the fey folk, all the while keeping a wary eye on the glowing fox. It made no move to attack him, but its behaviour did not mellow. Lan thought of his father again, particularly the quiet man’s favourite spell. A calming spell that could win arguments and help a fussing baby to sleep.

Lan gripped his sword so tightly that he could feel his skin squeak against the leather grip. He had no spells, no proper learning. Hadn’t wanted it when he could have had it.

Something cracked under his foot. He nearly jumped–he had not realised that he had been stepping back. Instinct had pushed him away from the fox, towards higher ground.

The snap of whatever he had stepped on sent a change through the fox as well. It sat up, rearranging itself out of an attacking stance, into a pose very like a cat. The way it had sat when it had looked at him after ‘killing’ the construct. It even swayed its tail. The light continued to envelope it, but it had dimmed slightly, and flickered slowly, in time with the tail’s sway.

Lan relaxed, but only just. He pointed the tip of his sword at the fox, then moved it about, indicating the forest clearing. “This is your territory?” he asked, feeling rather foolish for speaking.

Ears erect, the fox stared straight into his eyes. He imagined it saying something to the effect of, “What do you think?”

The sword slid into its scabbard with a reluctant sound. Lan sighed, putting a hand over his heart. He’d been staring into the face of real magic, and its source was as supernatural as a dog raising its leg. He reached into his pack and took out a small portion of dried meat. “My apologies,” he said, as he tossed the meat to the fox.

It caught it in its mouth, but did not eat right away. It went on staring at him until he turned away.

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More Lan

Ale would not soothe Lan’s mood.

He had indulged in a long, steaming bath earlier that evening. His skin still felt raw and new, but it was a good feeling. Much better than the stewing mess under his skin.

There was no call for it, his inner monologue told him. He had taken back what had remained of Fetlock and told the mayor what had happened. The mayor had looked perplexed, but had brought in the local hedgewizard for her consultation. She was a tall, willowy woman, very like Lan’s mother. One look at the mess of burnt twigs and hair, and then she had brushed her hands off on her long sleeves and announced that Fetlock had never been a man at all.

“A construct,” Lan muttered. He rubbed his index finger and thumb together. No wonder her presence had not been required beyond two minutes. An amateur ought to have been able to see Fetlock for what he was, particularly in such a defeated state. Poor Lan was in the same magical state as an amateur, with even less reason than a true amateur had for ignorance.

The wood of the bar bit into his bare forearms. He reached for his pint, then thought better of it and reached for his purse instead. He paid his tab, then left the tavern.

Fetlock’s origins would be a matter for someone else. Although Lan would have been willing enough to pursue the matter further, the mayor had paid him personally, before dismissing him with as much ceremony.

Outside the village, night seemed more honest. Black and blue dominated the spectrum, suppressing even the green. There were no lanterns attempting to beat back or dispel the calmness of the dark. Lan trudged northwards, back to the spot where he had seen Fetlock fall to pieces. Where he had seen the fox.

When he arrived there, he glanced up at the tree where he had hidden himself. He briefly considered climbing back up, but decided against it. The fox had seen through Fetlock, that was no surprise. Many animals, particularly those as sharp of wit as a fox, could see through magic. His father had told him that, as well as many other things. Lan leaned against the tree trunk and glared at the dirt. If only he had been a better listener.

Sighing, he sat down with his back up against the tree. The question of why was what bothered him. Why had it bothered about Fetlock? And why had it not attacked him?

It couldn’t have been a protective spirit guiding or using the animal. Those were yet another subject that he could have learned much more about from his father. But what he did remember was enough to strike the possibility from his mind.

After all, there was nothing out there set on protecting him. He hadn’t needed it in any case. A construct was less powerful than a man, not more.

Lan reached into his rucksack and took out a well-worn letter. It was the last he had received from his parents. It was easy enough to send them messages, but so long as his father kept his promise not to meddle with magic, he could only receive messages when he decided to stay in one place longer than he generally desired.

Reading through the letter brought a smile to his face. Another baby for his second eldest sister. She’d be wearing braids and picking flowers by the time he went back home.

Night crawled on. Scratching his cheek, Lan rested his head on his shoulder and let himself doze off. Perhaps he’d never find the fox or figure out why it had attacked the construct. It wouldn’t affect even if he did. He would just rise in the morning and set off for wherever the horizon took him next.

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Freewriting at last

Wind blew through Lan’s hair, mussing it like a woman’s fingers. He clicked his tongue in irritation and scooted along the tree branch, closer to the trunk. There, the leaves grew thick enough to block the persistent breezes of spring.

He reached back for his sword. It would be a while longer before he could act. But the simple act of touching the pommel acted as reassurance.

It had been nearly an hour. Lan was not accustomed to waiting for anything. He was similarly unused to the peculiar itching of a week’s journeying with no opportunities to bathe.

Scratching the small of his back through his tunic, he promised himself that he would find an inn. After he had his quarry.

Below him, the high grass swayed. His ears pricked up at the sound of that same grass, further afield, crunching. Animals would have been avoiding the area. As natural as Lan’s scent was steadily becoming, he was not quite one with the forest.

He let go his sword to better maintain his grip on the tree. More footsteps crushed the grass, snapping some stalks and merely bending others.

All it would take was one little, deadly leap. A flash of steel through the man’s neck.

But that wasn’t why Lan was there.

A tow-headed man walked confidently past the tree. His clothing was rich, but gaudy. It marked him as a man who wanted to show his wealth, but could only perceive the maths of a purchase. Numbers beat sense, and numbers dictated bright reds and purples.

Lan wet his lips. He was only there to listen, but his mouth felt dry all the same. This man matched the description that the mayor had given of the one called Fetlock. His was the face for a suspected group of con artists.

After a week of investigation, Lan had managed to uncover the meeting place where Fetlock met with the group’s bagman. This meeting would be enough evidence either to bring in Fetlock to the Madis Watch. To prove that he was more than just an unlucky actor forced to work for thieves.

It was difficult to see why anyone would believe a story of ill luck from such a fat, brightly attired man.

He rocked on his heels and whistled while he waited. Like a little boy with nothing to do. Lan squinted at Fetlock’s back. Suspicion and unease began to settle into his stomach.

He drew a knife from his belt. It was a small throwing knife, from a set gifted from his little brother. It would be difficult to kill Fetlock with one of the knives, but it would incapacitate him.

As he raised his arm back to throw the knife, Lan saw Fetlock turn. Light glinted off of his hand as he threw a sharp projectile of his own.

Lan kicked his feet out from under him and straightened, allowing his body to flop back. He wrapped his legs around the tree while the rest of him swung downwards. As his head dropped, he saw the spinning metal disc cut through the foliage.

His drop became a complete spin, flipping him through the air as he released his legs’ grip on the branch.

But as he landed, he saw another flash. Rather, a blur–dark red, the size of a very large dog.

The blur slammed into Fetlock, so quickly that the man did not have time to exchange his triumphant grin for a dismayed look of horror.

Sword already drawn, Lan stood rooted to the ground. As the blur had collided with Fetlock, it had revealed itself to be a great red fox. It tore into the fat man’s flesh, shaking and pulling.

Shock seemed to grip Lan’s ankles as though a pair of hands had risen from the ground to hold him. He crouched into a fighting stance, eyes on the beast.

Fetlock had already ceased to move. His arm waggled limply as the red fox, his fingers held in its teeth, shook him.

Two of his fingers came loose with a sound that made Lan wince. He backed away, knees trembling.

The fox stalked up to him. Somehow, it seemed to shrink as it came closer. By the time it had come without an arm’s reach, it was nearly as small as a house cat.

It dropped the fingers at Lan’s feet, then sat up. Its tail twitched slightly as it watched him.

He picked up the fingers, quickly, careful not to come too close to the fox. It blinked at him, cocking its head to one side. There was no blood on its coat or mouth.

As Lan looked away from the fox and down at the two fingers lying in his palm, a blue spark passed through them. Little lightning. The sign of a witch. Only a short lifetime of training kept him from yelping at the sharp prickling that passed through his own skin.

When it had stopped, half a handful of small twigs lay in his hand. They were burnt black and smoking, as though he’d just pulled them from a fire. But they felt cold as stone under shade.

Lan dropped them on the ground and stood up, hoping to intimidate the fox with his height. “Just what’s–”

The fox was already gone.