Year Fifty

He didn’t have a name. He had lost it somewhere. It didn’t bother him as much as it

used to for some reason.

He supposed it was because he had been traveling for a long time with weapons and

warrants at hand. He had served more than a few in the fifty years he had worn the

burning star on his shirt.

It had been a real pleasure in some cases.

He brought his horse to a halt and looked at the town in front of him. It had grown a

little, but he could still see the village that had used to stand before it. He pulled out

the warrant card that had dragged him to the place, and wondered where he would

find his quarry.

The card gave a name, general appearance, and rough location. At the bottom were

a list of crimes that formed the core of the warrant. When he served the warrant, the

card would glow to point at the presence of the guilty party. If it actually touched the

guilty party, or if he had to kill the culprit, the card would burn up and take the culprit

to wherever he was supposed to go.

He felt like he should know that too, but there was a gap there.

“How do you do?,” asked an elderly lady in a patched dress and jacket. Her hair was

thin and whiter than any mountain snow. Her eyes were sharp blue crystal in the dried

skull of her face.

“I’m fine,” said the traveler. “Got an inn around here?”

“Down the street a bit,” said the lady. She turned to look back the way she came. She

pointed to a building with a hitching post in front of it. “Horses can be lodged in a

corral behind the place.”

“Thanks,” said the traveler. He urged the horse forward. The horse turned to look at

the lady, snorting quietly.

“I don’t have any sugar for you,” said the old lady. “Maybe the inn will.”

“Hold on,” said the rider. “Do you know a Finn Star Eater?”

“Certainly,” said the old lady. “He’s one of the old men of the village. He lives in that

cottage over there.”

She pointed at a small house that looked normal at first, but showed signs of deals

with things men weren’t meant to know. He pushed back the wide brimmed hat he

wore as he examined the place.

“One of the old men of the village,” said the traveler.

He kicked his horse forward. A few of the old men he had met recently needed to

meet their reward, and eventual recycling after the next few centuries. This might be

the same type of old man as the others.

He dismounted and let the reins drop as he looked at the house. It seemed similar to

the others, but was far older. It had come first, then the neighbors had moved in

around him.

He pulled a knife from under his traveling cloak and cut a finger. Flame dripped from

the cut. It hit the edge of the lawn and burned something in the grass. He dripped

more of the flaming blood in a line across the edge of the yard. Little bits of blue

exploded as he watched.

Let’s see what the inside of this place looks like. He put the knife away. He pulled the

front of the cloak away and draped it over his shoulder. He had a set of belts carrying

things that looked like crossbows, but didn’t have the arms. A short sword hung

beside his knife from one of the belts. He walked up to the front door of the house

and knocked, holding the black warrant card in his left hand.

Once he executed this warrant, there was another target a few days ride away. It had

only been chance that he had turned to ride into the Steps of Corwin before he went

the other way.

And now he might have his target in hand, and too old to put up a struggle.

He doubted that last. Every old man he had served had left some kind of scar. They

were mean, petty, vicious whoresons to the end.

And he had been extremely happy to put all of them down.

He knocked on the door. If this was the right guy, he was getting a dose of hellfire

and a quick trip to where he belonged. If it wasn’t, then he would have to ask around

for the right guy.

He had done that enough in the last fifty years since he had dug out of his unmarked

grave.

He knocked on the door again when he didn’t get a response. He frowned as he

listened. Maybe the honorable old man wasn’t home.

He knocked once more. He thought he heard rustling inside, but he wasn’t sure.

Maybe he should kick the door in. He had a finite amount of time. He knew that

somehow. Serving the warrants and the way his body kept saying go to sleep forever

told him that. He needed to check this old man, and then move on.

“Not home?,” asked the old lady. “Why don’t we have some tea at Mrs. Chaplain’s.

She has the best tea. I tell her so myself.”

“Tea?,” said the traveler.

“Unless you’re going to break in the door and murder Master Eater in his own home,”

said the old lady. “I think a spot of tea will do us both some good, especially on this

day of all days.”

“What’s so important about this day?,” asked the traveler. He pulled his cloak down

to cover his upper body. He tucked the card away. He gave one more look at the door

before walking across the grass to join her.

“This is the day we lost the Stalking Light brothers,” said the lady. She turned to walk

toward a neighbor’s house on the corner. “They were turned to statues up there.”

She pointed to a piece of rock sticking out of a mountain looming above the town. He

glanced at it. It didn’t mean anything to him.

“They saved my life that day, and I will never forget it,” said the lady.

The traveler grabbed the reins of his horse and led the beast after the townswoman.

He glanced back at the house. Finn Eater could be in there. He should break the door

down and go about his business.

On the other hand, if the man wasn’t there and saw him trying to execute the warrant

card, he might run. Some kind of magic was involved. Did he really want to run into

that when he could just shoot the old man from across the street when he showed his

face.

He had time to sip some tea and hear some local legend while waiting to execute the

warrant. And once the deed was done, he could move on with a minimum of fuss.

Besides he could look on the tea as a break from the endless riding he had to do to do

his task. His horse would like some time with him out of the saddle. He could tell that

in the way he tried to walk with the old lady.

“Mistress Chaplain,” called the old lady as she tried the door of the house. “It’s me,

Clara.”

She went in, calling the name of her friend. The rider dropped the reins so the horse

would guard the door while he walked in with his new companion. They found

Mistress Chaplain sitting at a table in the kitchen, looking at some sewing she was

trying to do.

“Mistress Chaplain, have you seen Mister Eater?,” asked Clara. “This stranger would

like to talk to him.”

“No,” said the woman. She wasn’t as elderly as Clara, but seemed more broken by

life. “I haven’t seen him since he came home last night.”

“Mistress Chaplain and her daughters handle a lot of the clothing repair in town,” said

Clara. “I was wondering if we could get some tea, madam.”

“Yes, Clara,” said Mistress Chaplain. “So you’re looking for old Finn. It doesn’t

surprise me none. What are you, some kind of demon?”

“Bounty hunter,” said the rider. “I have a warrant for your neighbor’s arrest. Mistress

Clara suggested we get some tea while we wait for him to come home.”

“He won’t be coming home,” said the seamstress. “He’s been spending the last week

on the mountain. He doesn’t think I noticed him coming home from up there, but

that’s where he’s been.”

“There’s nothing on the mountain except the stones,” said Clara. She put a pot of

water on to boil.

“I think that’s where he’s going,” said Mistress Chaplain. “I don’t know why.”

“These stones?,” asked the traveler. “What are they?”

“We don’t know,” said Clara. “They’ve been standing there for a long time. And like

I said, they’re where the seven brothers were turned into statues.”

“How sure of you of that?,” asked the traveler.

“I was there,” said Clara. “I was a little girl then. But I saw most of it before Wendall

told me to leave. As I came down the mountain, there was flash. The next day I took

my father up there and we found them standing in poses to say they were still

fighting.”

“Are the statues still there?,” asked the traveler.

“Yes,” said Clara. “I go up there a few times a month. They still look like the day they

were cast.”

“I’ve been up there when I was much younger than this,” said Mistress Chaplain.

“Clara is right. No normal statue resists the snow and the rain like these do. And

sometimes you can hear a dog barking when there is no dog.”

“A dog barking when there is no dog?,” asked the traveler.

“Wendall Stalking Light had an accident when he was younger,” said Clara. “He

could only talk by making dog sounds.”

“And he was the most kind and graceful of the brothers,” said Mistress Chaplain. “My

mother told me stories about the brothers you wouldn’t believe.”

“I think we should look at these statues,” said the traveler.

“Tea first,” said Clara. She pulled down three cups and put them on the table. “Then

I will show you the way.”

“Time?,” asked the rider.

“If he’s up there, he won’t be coming down here until after the sun goes down,” said

Clara. “That means we have plenty of time to go up and see what he’s doing in the

dead of night.”

“You think he turned your friends into statues,” said the rider. He thought that was

an accurate reading.

“I do now,” said Clara. “Your arriving on the anniversary explains a lot if you accept

that he’s some kind of magician.”

“It might be luck,” said the rider.

“I’m more worried if he is going to try whatever he was trying a hundred years ago,”

said Clara. “It might be bad for the town.”

The rider couldn’t argue with that. If the spell was special enough, there was no

telling how far it could expand to cover things. And the town was below the

outcropping and its stone circle.

What happened if whatever was summoned fell on the town?

They drank tea and talked about the local happenings. A lot of it was gossip in his

opinion. The sun started its slow walk down to the other side of the world.

“Let’s have another cake, and then we should go,” said Clara. “Thank you for your

hospitality, Mistress Chaplain.”

“It was nothing compared to what you have done for me,” said the seamstress. “Come

back when this is over so we can talk some more, young man.”

“It will be a pleasure,” the traveler said. He tipped his hat as he stood.

“It will be a rough climb for a horse,” Clara said. “Leave him here. The neighbors

won’t do anything to him.”

The traveler took some food from his saddle bags and fed the horse by hand. He

wiped the sides of his horse with a rag.

“Stay here until I come back,” he said.

The horse nodded his head.

“What’s his name?,” Clara asked.

“Doesn’t have one,” said the rider.

“He should have a name,” said Clara. “Something to reflect his personality.”

The rider looked at the horse in concentration. The horse looked back, lips drawn

from blocky teeth.

“Stupid is good enough,” said the rider.

The horse snorted, and shook his head.

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” said Clara. “I think a better name is Dasher.”

The horse nodded with another blocky grin.

“I’ll see if I can get you some more oats when I get home,” said Clara.

She led the way from the houses toward the mountain with a spry step. The traveler

looked back at his horse looking at him. He could swear the animal was grinning at

him.

He shook the feeling and concentrated on following the trail up the mountain. Before

the night was over, he figured he would be coming down the mountain after facing

another insane old man.

But he would be one more card away from the end of his job.