Chapter 3
Gaston's mind swam with a thousand questions as he and Theophile rode at a hasty trot toward Voeilfons. The trouble was, he, not having brainpower as one of his better qualities, could only think to ask one of them at a time. And the Ranger, for his part, had suddenly become very tight-lipped.
"Why didn't you warn me about them?" the hunter asked for at least the third time since they'd had their hair-raising encounter in the woods. 'They,' of course, were les Condamnes, and he didn't speak their name for fear that they somehow might re-materialize out of thin air.
Theophile, under his cowl, smiled without humor. "I did warn you. I told you this would be a very dangerous operation, and I couldn't absolutely guarantee your safety," he answered with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Yeah, but you didn't say anything about monstrous ghost-riders or…"
"Ta bouche!" Theophile hissed, cutting him off. Instantly, the Ranger nocked an arrow to his bow, and Gaston did the same. Ahead, only darkness lay ahead of them, and both men were still rattled from their close brush with les Condamnes.
On the small knoll ahead of them, a brown shape darted forward. They both relaxed as they realized it was harmless. A dog, a little mongrel shepherd, wagged its tail and barked once more.
"Is that what you're worried about?" Gaston laughed, almost falling off Metibert in his sudden relief. "That's our terror of the night?"
Privately, Theophile was just as relieved, but said nothing. He lowered his bow and slung it across his saddle bow once more. Finally, he clapped his heels to his paint's side. "We must be close. That's the problem with Les Grises, it always plays tricks on your senses. Let's go," he called to his companion.
The dog, overjoyed to have companions, kept pace with the two horses. He barked once more.
If you're this carefree, it must mean those devils are far away, Gaston realized as he and his horse crested the knoll and looked down into a small, bowl-shaped valley. Beneath was a village, barely visible through the light curtain of mist and gloom. Only a few flickers of light gave it away. The dog, bored already, sprinted downhill, back to his unseen master's home.
"Voeilfons," said the Ranger, answering Gaston's unasked question. "If you know what's good for you, hunter, hold your tongue down there and follow my lead." He hesitated. "And for God's sake, don't mention them," he added as he cast a sideways glance to the treeline behind them.
"Have I let you down yet?" Gaston shot back confidently.
The Ranger did not answer him, but Gaston had the bad feeling that, inside the man's deep cowled cloak, he was grinning again.
Voeilfons was maybe half the size of Ste.-Eulalie, Gaston realized, but apart from the usual establishments such as a smithy, wheelwright, and tannery, the place was absolutely nothing like his home village. He tried to put his finger on what was different. Then he realized what it was. Everything here was without color. The few buildings that were painted were dilapidated and peeling, their signs broken and faded. A pot of flowers someone had set outside, in an attempt for brightness, was sad-looking and wilted.
It was as if someone, or something, had sucked all the cheer right out of the place. And he had a pretty good idea what that was.
"Happy place, isn't it?" the hunter said sarcastically. The horses' hooves clopped on the cobblestones; it was terribly loud in the otherwise perfect silence of Voeilfons. "You come here much?"
Theophile seemed to be looking for something. Distracted, he turned in his saddle. "Not when I can avoid it. This is business, remember?" he said with some irritation.
"Sorry. Forgive me for asking a question." Gaston was equally annoyed by now, as well as tired and hungry.
He himself had never been to Voeilfons, much less heard of the place. In fact, he'd hardly been anywhere else within two days' ride of home, he thought glumly. He wondered why his father Antoine never even mentioned this place to him, and he was about to ask Theophile when their horses came to a sudden halt.
A man stood in front of them, burdened with a pair of buckets. By his rough garb and weather-beaten face, he appeared to be an average workingman. Theophile lowered his cowl and spoke.
"Pardon me, monsieur, we are simple travelers looking for lodging and a tankard of ale for tonight. Can you help us?" he said as politely as he could.
The peasant, simple though he was, eyed Theophile's green cloak with suspicion. "Simple travelers, eh? I know your type. You're one of those damn Rangers. In league with the spirits, no doubt…"
It was Gaston who interrupted him. The young hunter's voice was full of confidence. "Spirits? Hah!" He snorted dismissively. "What kind of man believes in spirits? I don't know about Rangers," he said, gesturing to Theophile, "but this fellow's a good friend of mine, and he asked you a question. I suggest you answer it before he gets angry."
He sat back in the saddle, smug, not noticing Theophile's fierce expression.
Whether it was Gaston's forcefulness or Theophile's green cloak that did the trick, neither knew, but the peasant finally sighed in resignation. "All right. The local tavern is at the end of the street. Don't say I didn't warn you though, rough sort of place…"
"Sounds perfect!" boomed Gaston, eager for a hot meal and ale. He spurred Metibert forward.
"Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," muttered Theophile under his breath.
The tavern, for some reason known only to its owner, was called the Leaping Cow. Its faded sign bore the emblem of a cow jumping over a crescent moon.
It was about the only welcoming thing about the establishment. Theophile was intimately familiar with such places; he had been in so many of them in his nine years of Ranger service. He knew it was best to lurk quietly in the shadows, bow ever at the ready. It was the very best way to gather intelligence: sitting back and letting other men's tongues loosen through drink. He sat in the background now, and, to a casual observer, he seemed to be just another part of the rough walls.
They'd been inside for a couple hours, their horses bedded down in the adjoining livery, a room reserved upstairs for the two men. The proprietor was a tall, grey-haired woman (a widow, Theophile guessed), and she'd been more than accommodating. People in villages like Voeilfons too often were not, and it was a pleasant surprise. The Ranger had long since finished the hearty plate of venison stew and home-baked bread she'd served him. He'd been gracious enough to stay in the shadows, silent and brooding, nursing his ale carefully.
The source of his frustration was evident. No one seemed to be talking, which was unusual. The atmosphere of the Leaping Cow was somber, conversations muttered and hushed. Men always talked in taverns. Something was wrong.
Which was why, in a desperate gambit, he'd used his alternate plan.
Gaston had taken to the rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the tavern as a fish to water, and Theophile watched with a mixture of pained amusement and horror as he cajoled his captive audience. He still kept a close eye on the young man, who'd already drunk three tankards of the inn's strong ale but was still going strong. He must have a stomach like a draft horse.
If Gaston couldn't get the locals talking, they weren't going to.
"And then, the wolves took one look at me and ran back into the woods, just like a bunch of scared dogs," he crowed, taking another swig of the powerful brew. The handful of local girls had gathered around the strange visitor in the bright scarlet jerkin. Gaston had that effect on the opposite sex; they were drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet.
Strangely, there were no young men around the hunter's own age to be seen, although the older male villagers had begun to grow annoyed. One of them, a burly man in a smith's apron, muttered something in Gaston's general direction.
"Damn fool," the smith said, "wolves don't act like that."
"Excuse me?" Gaston interrupted, shocked that anyone would have the nerve to break him off in mid-boast. "What did you say?"
"I said," the smith repeated, "there's no way they could have done that, 'cause wolves aren't like dogs. They'll eat you as soon as look at you," he finished with a loud belch.
Carefully, Gaston rose to his full height from the seat he'd occupied. From the gathered crowd, there was a collective gasp. Theophile, from his spot in the shadows, instantly came to alert.
"I was there, friend. I'm just telling it like it was," the young hunter said, smiling.
"And I'm telling you that's merde." The smith, though not as tall, was well-muscled from years at his trade, and didn't appear in the least intimidated.
At that moment, Theophile, watching from the shadows, knew he could have sliced the tension with the dirk he carried in his right boot. His well-honed instincts told him to stay put. Gaston could handle himself.
And if he couldn't, he had backup.
Each man, the hunter and the smith, drew himself up to his full height. Then, inexplicably, Gaston started to laugh. Nervously, the other tavern patrons did as well.
"You must not understand," the young man said, bits of laughter punctuating his words. "I'm Gaston de Valois. Wolves act differently in my presence. You have heard of me?" The last was said less as a question and more as a statement.
Silently, Theophile cursed. That was the one thing he'd been explicit about with his young companion. When traveling in hostile territory, it was always a good idea to travel incognito, to keep your own identity a secret. You just never knew who your enemies might be.
But Gaston, of course, had paid the warning little attention. And his tongue had been loosened by the strong ale.
"De Valois?" The smith scratched at his scruffy beard. "You mean that damn paltonier from up in the valley? Oui, I know him. Nothing but a…"
Whatever the man thought of Gaston's father, no one ever did find out, because the younger de Valois' fist caught him under the chin at precisely that moment. The man staggered back. After the momentary daze, he shook his head, then aimed a heavy blow at the hunter's head. It connected dully.
This was just the sort of worst-case scenario the Ranger had imagined. The combination of a stranger in their midst, heavy drink, and pent-up tension had ignited the men of Voeilfons. In seconds, other villagers had joined in the fracas and were pounding away at Gaston, who unleashed a flurry of blows in every direction.
Theophile sprang to his feet. His weapons, the bow and the dirk, were useless in these close quarters, as he could not risk hitting Gaston. Nevertheless, he rushed in to assist. The younger man, at the moment, seemed to be doing just fine; he'd sent the smith, and two other villagers, reeling with forceful punches.
"Let's get out of here!" hissed the Ranger, ducking to avoid a chair thrown at him. At this point, all pretense was gone.
"Who wants more?" roared Gaston, shrugging aside blows easily by now. "Come on, boys, I'm ready!"
But the fight, such as it was, was over. These men were clearly not born fighters, Theophile saw. They were a scared lot of farm laborers, craftsmen, and peasants who had been living in fear for a long time. He decided he could use that fact to his advantage.
"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure," he said evenly, drawing his dirk. "However, my friend and I here," he gestured to Gaston, "are on urgent business, and if any one of you so much as says another word, I'll spit him like a pig." The Ranger's voice was low, with a slight growl underneath it, like a wolf's.
"And I'll have the Cloaked Ones upon him so fast, he won't be able to blink."
If the mood in the tavern had been tense before, it was painfully so now. Theophile had broken his own rule and invoked the name of les Condamnes. But he was a Ranger, a learned man, and did not put much stock in superstition. The men of Voeilfons, on the other hand, made a variety of gestures to ward off evil as he spoke the words.
A few of them, the impudent smith included, shuffled off through the tavern doors into the night. The rest slunk back from the bar, looking guilty and giving the red-clad hunter and his Ranger companion the widest of berths.
"I thought I did just fine," Gaston said before Theophile had had a chance to ask him anything. He grinned broadly, ignoring the other's pained expression.
"You de Valois and your diplomatic ways," sighed the Ranger, pouring himself a little of the wine from a carafe on the bar. "Is it some kind of gift?"
"Absolutely." The younger man put his arms behind his head, satisfied. "By the way, you manage to snoop anything from over there?"
Theophile felt mildly insulted by Gaston's choice of words, but said nothing. He had already come to realize that words were useless when it came to dealing with this brute. Instead, he tried another tactic.
"No, but did those girls tell you anything?" He gestured to the small knot of wenches in the far corner, who stood gossiping amongst themselves about the strangers among them.
"They told me I was the best-looking they'd ever seen. Said I was the first real man they'd run into years, and that my chin…"
The Ranger, annoyed, flung up his hands. "I mean about the woods, or any strange things that might have happened recently around here," he snapped.
In their argument, the two men had barely noticed the proprietress, the older widow, approaching them in her slight limping gait. "You'll not get much out of that lot. Like a bunch of grackles, they are." She emerged into the dim light. As Theophile had noticed earlier, she was older, perhaps twice his age, and silver-haired. There was something about her that immediately made her seem trustworthy. Theophile realized she was the first person they'd encountered in Voeilfons that had smiled.
Gaston kept prattling on, but the Ranger looked apologetic at the chaos they'd caused. "Madame, I'm sorry for the trouble. I'll gladly pay for the damages," he said, one hand going to the pouch at his belt.
But the woman shook her head. "I never charge a King's Ranger. No matter what kind of company he keeps." She smiled more broadly.
Theophile was intrigued. Most people, especially provincials like these, knew little about his work. They were usually just as suspicious about Rangers as they were about les Condamnes and other creatures of the night. This woman, for some strange reason, was not. "Who are you?" he asked her softly.
"I'm a friend. You may call me Clemence." She poured more wine for her guest.
"And, Clemence, why would you want to help two strangers, one of whom," he gestured to Gaston, "nearly wrecked your establishment?"
"Because," the innkeeper said, drawing her breath in suddenly, "you and I, Ranger, are after the same thing." She pointed toward the door and the dark, forebidding world that lay beyond. "To stop those cursed devils once and for all."
To Be Continued