October 30th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Daun didn’t say much all night beyond quick greetings. He barely smiled. He was brought in the house and fell asleep the moment he took a chair. Something was bothering him, that much was clear. Mak feared the worst for Daun’s family, but he let the man sleep before asking questions.

Mak sipped a cup of Dame broth and stared out the window facing the road. Early morning light poured in, along with flies, a cool breeze, and one hornet who entered and frightened the children before it left.

Daun stirred on his chair.

“Good morning, pal,” Mak said. Not only had his old friend slept from supper to dawn, but he’d been in the exact position on his chair as when he’d first sat. “Your bones will be screaming after a sleep like that.”

Daun yawned. His mouth was dry and thick strings of spit connected both rows of teeth. He looked around the house and sighed. He seemed dazed. It looked as if the man didn’t know where he was or who he was with. Did he even remember coming to Mak’s in the first place? “Where’s Jerri?”

Mak exchanged a somber look with the others. “We don’t know.”

Daun nodded knowingly.

“I don’t want to ask what ain’t my business,” Mak said, “but dammit, I need to know if Valli and the kids are alright. Your land was abandoned last I went.”

Konni looked up from her cup of broth and regarded Daun, eager for the answer. Even the children went silent. Sherik was outside somewhere, most likely spending time with Butterhoof.

Daun groaned. His puffy, sand-encrusted eyes fell groggily to the floor and he mumbled hoarse words from an over-slept throat. “I don’t want to talk about it. At least not right now.”

Mak nodded his understanding and drained the rest of his tepid broth.

The wounds on Daun’s face had faded. He looked very similar to the Daun Mak knew, save for the hopeless, dark expression. Once, even difficult times could not pry away his smile. What he’d faced for that smile to not only leave but take every trace of its prior existence with it must’ve been worse than anything yet to befall Mak.

New wounds had appeared on Daun’s knuckles. They were swollen, and the skin was split at the peak of each one. The man sat silent, opening and closing his fingers, wincing all the while.

Mak rose. “Come get some sun, Daun,” he said before leaving the house.

Sherik sat by the firepit outside, humming a melancholic song to frail flames. Mak whistled to catch his attention and signaled for him to follow. The song stopped, and Sherik jumped to his feet. They followed Mak into the tool shed.

* * *

The steam plough started without issue. They rode along the road to the Westen Freight camp. They had uninstalled the plough itself and left it in the shed. The wagon Butterhoof usually pulled was hitched to the steam plough to give the mount a rest. Butterhoof sauntered through the field and grazed the dry grass. It felt good to see an animal out there again.

They parked before the mess where the battle had taken place. Massive vultures, their beaks red with blood, flew off at the sound of carriage wheels. The stench was overwhelming. Mak and Sherik blocked their noses desperately, but Daun seemed unfazed. Instead, he moved over to the bodies strewn around the expired fire. “Looks like you fellas don’t need my help after all.”

It was the first coherent thing he’d said that sounded like the man Mak knew before. Mak laughed. “Any help is more than welcome.” He looked down on the corpses and spat. “Imagine what we could do with three shooters. Maybe four with Konni.”

They loaded the wagon with boxes of ammunition and every rifle, bayonet, and knife they couldn’t bring the night before.

Daun barely spoke. He flinched at every slight sound and looked over his shoulder, even more often than Mak did. It was an unfortunate state in which to witness an old friend. One that worried Mak for two reasons. For one, he wondered what sort of tragedy might have befallen Daun’s family, and secondly, he wondered if his family would suffer the same fate. Mak nearly laughed at the thought. They’ve already come. Mak thought it best to leave the man in silence. He would speak when ready.

He glanced across the road after loading another crate into the wagon. The image of Jerri’s discarded dress came into mind. What had they done to her? It was hard to believe she was truly gone. There was an odd feeling in his gut that insisted she was in the house reading or in the barn milking Milli. More death. Mak’s breathing was cut by a sneaking sob. He passed it off as a cough. You were supposed to go on to be mayor, or governor. You could have done anything you wanted. Mak feigned another cough.

“That gal is so smart,” he’d say to whoever he spoke to in town. “She doesn’t get it from me.”

Konni would clear her throat, comically implying herself.

“Even you can’t take credit for that one. She’s as bright as they come.” Mak scratched a sting in the corner of his eye. I know you’re out there somewhere, little lady. If anyone could outsmart them… even all the so-called intellectuals in the city, it’s you.

“Pa, that crate ain’t holding bullets,” Sherik said. “It’s just wooden planks for the rail.”

Mak nodded as if he’d known, but it spawned an idea. “Why shouldn’t we take their wood, their nails, hammers, everything. We could use it to better barricade our property. They’re coming back, I’m sure of it. We’ll be ready for them.”

Sherik must have liked the idea. He hopped away and stacked three crates of various contents and brought them to the wagon with the energy of youth.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Mak?” Daun wiped his brow with a soiled sleeve, stained in dirt, and what might have been blood. “It might look like you’re expecting them.”

“I suppose I am,” Mak said.

“Don’t you think doing this will just invite them?”

“They’ve already invited themselves.”

“But why anger them further?”

Mak exchanged a perplexed look with Sherik. “They angered me, Daun. I don’t really care what they think.”

“I just think you should do everything in your power to appear unthreatening,” Daun said.

“We’ll have to disagree on this one, pal,” Mak said. “They invited themselves a little over a month ago now, and I don’t think they’ve ever had any intention of leaving us alone. I doubt a few defenses to better protect my family will sway their opinion in any direction.”

Daun shook his head and loaded another cart. It was an odd thing to be so passionate about. Mak decided against questioning him. Perhaps such defensive plans had been tried on his farm. Perhaps he knew their futility. Either way, Mak could not imagine a scenario where they would be better off without adequate defenses, so he loaded crates.

Mak started the steam plough. Daun pocketed one of the soldier’s knives and came toward the running engine. “It runs nice,” he said.

“Could have been yours,” Mak smirked playfully.

“Giving that to you was for the best,” Daun chuckled. “Valli knew what she was doing.” His eyes darkened, and his smile faded.

* * *

They loaded the wagon to the brim and rode home. It was silent save for the consistent chugging of the engine. Mak backed the wagon to the mouth of the open barn, and they began the long process of unloading. They’d store their loot in the empty stalls. The weaponry would come in the house in case of quick need.

Daun clicked his tongue after unloading the first crate. “Where’re your animals? Was harvest so bad that you needed to kill ’em all?”

Mak hoisted three stacked crates as Sherik had done. He grunted from the weight and his shoulder screamed in pain. He ignored it. “Those bastards came in the night. Stole them, probably killed them, and set fire to barn and house.”

“Except Butterhoof,” Sherik added. “She escaped them somehow.” He grinned and glanced at his steed who grazed carelessly in the field.

“They even killed my birds,” Mak said. “And God knows what’s happened to my chickens.”

“Awful,” Daun brought another load to an empty stall.

“All because I refuse to accept their damn offer,” Mak said.

Daun halted and stared out toward the road absent-mindedly, lost in thought. Mak said nothing. He couldn’t imagine which sort of memories haunted the poor man.

“They’re bad people, Mak,” Daun stared at nothing. “They’re…” he sobbed, “they’re really bad people, Mak.”

“You want to talk about it, pal?”

Daun nodded slowly, his gaze still trapped in some nightmare he’d lived through not long ago.