The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 61:

Matching Earring

Moth yanked the reins from Nehem’s hand and rode Aggo like an arrow out of the crowd of farmers and towards the sentries.

Aggo closed the gap quickly. He snapped to a stop in front of a terrified lieutenant on a skittish old warhorse.

“What are you doing?” shouted the lieutenant, sweating and disheveled, her red cape so soot-stained it was black. “What are you planning? Don’t think we’ll just let you butcher us like they did in Aldur!”

Moth glanced back and could see the farmers restlessly moving – some away from the conflict, some eagerly towards it. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, Moth leapt from Aggo onto the burnt grass and knelt on the ground, startling the lieutenant so bad she clutched her saber.

“We are meeting to talk about our Ferryman,” stated Moth, bowing her head. “It’s entirely peaceful. I am his wife; I’m bringing them wonderful news about what he has to say. You are fully welcome to join and listen; it’s no secret, it’s for everyone.”

The woman looked from Moth to the farmers and towards Tiding Range, her eyes bloodshot and her lips quivering. “Are you going to start cutting yourself?”

“No ma’am.”

The lieutenant whipped around in her saddle and screamed at a sentry, “Where is the Captain?”

“We’re trying to get him here, Lt. Idil,” said the sentry, meekly. He could not have been older than eighteen. “He’s very drunk.”

Heavy hoofbeats pounded like thunder.

They all turned to watch – Moth still bowing low. Another group of sentries on horses crossed the field, smoke whirling off their jackets as they came from a burn.

Lt. Idil looked relieved and waved them over. There was a roar from the other sentries and some shouted, “The Burn Squad!”

The farmers were suddenly behind Moth, Nehem was at her side again. Some still had their farm tools in hand, others only knives – all were young, furious, and desperate for blood. Nehem gave Moth a horrified look, and knelt next to her but kept his head up, ready to protect her. In the crowd of farmers were many children and babies, and already parents had crouched over them fearfully.

“Listen to me–” Moth began, but her voice was avalanched by another cheer of “Burn Squad!” as a sentry, riding far ahead of the Burn Squad, rode up to Lt. Idil.

“An insurrection?” demanded the sentry, glancing back to the group and waiting for his own lieutenant to catch up.

“Yes!” growled Lt. Idil. She pointed at Moth as the lieutenant of the burn squad rode up. “She led them all out here for a meeting. She started this!”

“Please listen!” Moth begged, sitting up and facing them, but not standing up. “We are not forming a tin cry!”

The Lieutenant from the Burn Squad towered over Moth from an enormous horse. said in astonishment, “Well piss on my soul – you’re alive, Mere?”

Moth, trembling, looked up at the soot-smudged face of Lt. Grotte. Moth cleared her throat and said, “Not for long, if this keeps going.”

Climbing leisurely off her horse, Lt. Grotte sat on the grass next to Moth and handed her a dirty canteen of water, a smile twisting her mouth scar.

Moth took the canteen and drank.

The sentries and farmers stared in astonishment – the blood drained from their heads and they began to calm down, many farmers lowering weapons as the sound of the crying children could be heard, bringing them to their senses.

Lt. Grotte shook Moth’s hand, stood up and stretched, and snatched Lt. Idil’s scrawny body off her horse and shook her like a doll. “What in hell do you think

you’re doing with your shit-brained mob? This the not how the Captain told us to handle a tin cry!”

“We’re not starting a tin cry,” said Moth.

“Lot of tinners crying out for it not to be a tin cry,” said Lt. Grotte in a low tone. She angrily flung down Lt. Idil, “Dispel your pack of drunk gamblers and get back to your outpost. Where is the Captain?”

A sentry piped up, “Captain Rill won’t get out of bed, ma’am. He’s drunk.”

“God,” muttered Lt. Grotte. She pulled Moth up from the ground and pointed at the farms. “Get your tinners home, don’t meet in such a foolish way – use the town hall, warn us ahead that you’re going to meet. These are tender times and we’re all just trying to make it through the night.”

“Yes, alright, we will.”

Lt. Grotte shoved Lt. Idil back on her horse and slapped it’s flanks to send it off back to Okatto. She looked at the farmers and then at Moth. She whispered to Moth, “Are you staying at the inn?”

“Not anymore,” replied Moth.

Thinking quickly, Lt. Grotte said, “Come stay with me at the Barrowly place, Poor Loom. It’ll smooth a lot of lumps if we’re seen on good terms.”

Moth agreed.

Straightening up and clearing her throat, Lt. Grotte addressed the farmers. “We sentries made minced hell of this and I apologize. Mere Hevwed–”

“Mere Korraban,” corrected Nehem quickly.

“Ey, you got married, congratulations.” Lt. Grotte elbowed Moth so hard she smacked into Aggo. “Mrs. Mere Korraban here is going to be staying with me at the Barrowly place. You are all free to gather there to talk as much as you like, with as many people as you like.”

Everyone was still so rattled on edge, all they could really manage to do was nod, watching with nervous eyes as the sentries slowly dispelled.

One of the young farmers said urgently to Moth, “The sunstones? What should we do?”

“Tell everyone to bring as many sunstones as they’re willing to give up and come to Lt. Grotte’s home two weeks from now, at noon.”

The farmers who overheard this nodded, and set to spread this information. Soon, the farmers began to dispel from the fields – just moments ago about to be soaked with blood.

Moth dizzily mounted Aggo, and Lt. Grotte mounted her horse, and Nehem walked at a slow pace with them towards Poor Loom.