Faormuc - J.B. Jones (reading an ebook .txt) 📗

have to work on your command presence."  From out past the porch, the bark of a laugh was followed by a snickered, "...you shall do so..."

 

Jonsai rolled his eyes a bit and curled his lips into a wry expression, "Mayhap your gratitude will be remembered come our day of pay," he said.  "And - raising his voice to be heard outside - while neither of you belligerent cretins were present to witness my commanding performance, my parting sally to the mongrels sent them on their way with unmistakeable and profound chagrin."

 

They all belly laughed at the noisome and eloquent fart Marku's horse released. Col gathered his things and went onto the porch.

 

*****

Marku was giving his gear and his horse's tack a final inspection when Colryn stepped off the porch and came abreast.   The woodsman leaned over to check for stones in his mount's hooves as he stated with certainty, "That cur was no wiz, Col.  Nor any o'the mutts with'im."

 

Nodding in agreement, he replied,  "I know, Marku.  There is no mistaking that the cat is faormuc, though.  And as I understand it, there is no faormuc without foul magick."  He shrugged.

 

The woodsman finished his preparations, rolled a smoke that would be his last for some time, as the odor traveled far and hampered stealth.  Lighting it, he drew deep and woofed irritation as a seed burst and scattered burning embers into his beard.  He pawed through the fur on his face and, satisfied that he was not going to need to shave, lit it again.  "What does Kayla have to say about it?"

 

Before answering, Col looked down and kicked a few times at a clump of dirt.  "We have not had the chance to discuss it."  He said no more and stood gazing at his own cabin.

 

With a hearty cackle, Marku said, "Oh ho! Banished again, are ye?"  He laughed some more and coughed smoke out of his lungs.  Flipping the foul thing away to arc into the dust of the yard, he said in fair mimicry of Jon's smooth voice and manner,  "Fear not, boss.  As it happens, the penitent will arrive bearing splendid gifts," nodding at the bowls in Col's hands. "I want to hear more o'this when I return and I want to know what that scroll says, too."

 

Having forgotten about the scroll, Colryn touched the spot where he had tucked it away with his elbow, assuring himself it remained.  "I suspect there will be much to speak of when you return.  Take great care and return safe and sound, Marku.  Do not forget that there is magick in this somewhere."

 

"From your lips to the ears of the gods, boss," he said as he unfastened the reins from the railing and swung into the saddle.  He wheeled his horse and trotted away.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Scroll

He was halfway to their home when Col almost dropped Kayla's gifts.  Off to the west, from somewhere deep into Michaela's farm, the faormuc, that most formidable and awesome weapon lay in the dirt, whining miserable and exhausted feline squalls of disgust. 

 

Col laughed for most of his trip home, slowing down and taking extra care so as not to dump the bread and stew.  He did not notice that the cat had gone silent.

 

He was still laughing as he shouldered the door open, planning to serve Michaela's dinner up and share the scalded cat story. 

 

That plan would be delayed. The cat, the damned faormuc, my wife's fine pet! thought Col, crouched at the far side of the great room. Nothing in its aggressive stance promised mercy. An aggravated mewl, high-pitched and piercing, came from the beast.  It got up to slink toward him and its huge claws carved scratches on the wooden floor. 

 

Armed with nothing deadlier than a bowl of stew, Colryn cursed the cat in a quiet voice, "I hope the smell of bull piss on you never goes away." 

 

Behind it stood Kayla.  Her head went back and forth between the cat and Colryn once, her gamine face awash in disbelief tainted by anger.  She said nothing aloud.  Somehow, Michaela held the animal's belligerence in check.  She turned to Col, not willing to speak and disrupt the delicate balance of control.  Michaela's large eyes willed him to become a statue. 

 

Colryn, the hunter, was intrigued.  The breathing person in him thought that unsound. He became a statue that shivered as his wife approached the faormuc and confronted the wild creature in silence.

 

*****

You will cease this now.  That male is my husband, my mate.  He is not a threat to you or to me.  Stop.

 

 The faormuc looked Michaela in the eye, her thought-speak had never before held the adamance, the command, it sensed now.  A sparkling thread of caustic drool formed at the corner of its jaw.  It showed no teeth. 

 

Kayla stared back at it with eerie intensity.  She took a deep breath and tested her control by speaking aloud.  "Colryn is not a threat," Michaela said.  Her quick look at Col showed the statement to be a warning to him, as well as a declaration to the faormuc. 

 

The cat lowered its gaze to the level of her chin.  It gave a rebellious but half-hearted snarl then turned and looked at Colryn. In grudging increments, the faormuc subsided. Its forest colored coat relaxed and the flashing lightning bolts were concealed.  Instead of lying back flat along its skull, the ears faced him, dark tufts wiggling atop them.  

 

Colryn watched, his stomach made queasy by the fight-or-flight instinct. The confusing thing that might be  mostly-cat again padded toward him, tail held high, a slight and stiff wave in it. 

 

"Relax, now, Col.  You will be safe.  Do nothing to alarm that animal," said Michaela.

 

The cat, seated now in front of Col, looked over its shoulder at Kayla then craned its head up at the man once more.  It drew its black lips back at the corners and released them, just the once.  The effect looked to be a fleeting, apologetic grin.  With one paw, and no claws, the cat bumped against the scroll Colryn carried. 

 

With magickal immediacy the faormuc returned but retreated toward Kayla and became defensive.  It sat in three quarter profile to the surprised hunter. The cat's legs were pulled in to protect its vulnerable belly. Lightning streaked along its flanks. The creature spat and hissed, once flashing a clawed paw toward Colryn.

 

"Col?  What have you done?"  Michaela shook her head, blew a fast harsh breath through her nose. "No, I meant,  what do you have?"  She looked at her husband with pleading doe eyes.  "Oh, be careful."

 

Col fished the scroll out with a controlled and soothing pace, gave it a glance and held it out to the faormuc.

 

Which then batted it out of the man's hand.  It leaped along the same tragectory the scroll had taken.  Quick and intimidating, it turned to defend the territory between Colryn and the scroll.  The beast alternated scrutiny of Colryn with plaintive yowls directed over its shoulder in the direction of Michaela.

 

As she stepped further into the room, her dangerous 'pet' spared a glimpse to offer another cajoling wail.  It faced Colryn then with much more agitated intensity.  On its feet, it hovered over the space surrounding the scroll.  When she was one step from it and leaning toward the scroll the faormuc encouraged her with one brisk nod of its head. 

 

Michaela picked up the scroll, showed it to the faormuc and retreated into the kitchen while waving it in front of the cat's nose. "Kayla, it is a cat.  Not some dog to be lured with a bone," she chided herself.  The faormuc followed though and she gave Colryn a quick, reassuring peek.  The faormuc's peeks at her husband were not as comforting.

 

*****

Colryn went and sat in one of the chairs outside.  He was fixated on the thought that he should have poured a mug of cider. He recalled what Michaela had said of storm bent animals the time or two they had spoken of them.

 

Caught between powerful sorcery and an unnatural creature bent on destroying it. 

 

How do I protect Michaela?

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Discoveries

Marku, the Lore Adept, trailed after the Faustians. Following the most direct path home, the royal party of emissaries,  he choked a cackle that could reveal his position to them, took the trail that would lead them into  the woods.  Marku smiled.  He did not expect their stay in the forest, when they reached it, to be long.

 

He rode behind the princeling and his men, patient.  They were not trying to hide their trail.  All along the way, signs of their passage were evident.  Marku followed the trail of overturned rocks, crushed grasses and broken stems, finding equipment and supplies abandoned in order to lighten their load.  He read the sign as he came to it, paying special attention to the discarded bits - some of the things could be useful to one more attuned to the surroundings.  He shook his head, wondered how they would survive their long hike, and scavenged these.

 

In truth, he could follow the party with his eyes closed, letting his horse do the walking, tracking them by their loud and constant carping borne on the wind.  Once, he heard a splash followed by howls and curses as some of the men failed a stream crossing.  Colryn's directions to leave food for them in a couple of days would be important.  No animal of the field or forest that they could hunt with their sole weapon would be found anywhere near the raucous travelers.

 

The woodsman ambled along, picking from a pouch of trail rations, detouring into the woodline once to let his horse eat some apples and drink cool water from a shaded stream Marku knew of.  The princeling was no challenge to shadow and Marku let his mind wander, keeping alert only that part which would recognize threats to his own travel.

 

Marku's love of the forest and the unearthing of its secrets had been born of necessity.  His father, Gerald, Marquise Du'Vulliere, a distant province, had learned of Selena and its wondrous aurochs.  Seeking to increase a fortune his spendthrift wife was just as determined to deplete, he trundled the shrew and his only son into the wilds.

 

The boy's life there was interesting.  Although his mornings were spent chafing under the tutelage of a varied cadre of travelling instructors that his father insisted upon in order to further his education, neither Father nor the shrew cared a whit for what Marku did after. 

 

Selena's rough