A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (10 page)

At the top of a hill, with the rooftops of Carthold glowing russet and ochre in the early afternoon sun, Megan threw a shoe. Corlin dismounted and lifted the shoeless hoof.

He frowned. “That’s odd. I checked her shoes earlier and they all looked sound. Well, at least there’s no nails stuck in the hoof.”

Otty dismounted and bent down beside Corlin to study the hoof. Straightening up he looked towards Carthold. “It’s only a couple of miles. You ride Egg, and I’ll walk and lead Megan until we can find a smithy.”

As a counterbalance to this bit of bad luck, they came across a blacksmith’s forge right on the edge of the town. Half-timbered and stone-built, it sat at the back of a wide cobbled yard a short distance from a corner of a busy crossroads. Corlin scrambled out of Egg’s saddle, took Megan’s leading rein from Otty and hitched the two horses to a nearby tethering post. The heat and glow from the workshop washed over the two men as they stood in the wide doorway, waiting for the smith to finish or put aside the piece he was working on. Water hissed and a cloud of steam swirled into the rafters as the orange glow of hot metal was plunged and quenched. A few skilful and carefully aimed taps with a heavy hammer, a check with a discerning eye, and the piece was finished and placed to one side to cool. Wiping charcoal dust and sweat from his face, the blacksmith stepped outside.

The two travellers stared. To their eyes, the smith was a giant. Corlin swallowed hard as he looked up into ice-blue eyes which glared at him from at least twenty hands above the ground.

The minstrel took a deep breath. “Well met, master smith.”

The giant’s head nodded once on his thick muscular neck as he grunted once by way of reply. Corlin’s neck was already beginning to ache.

He made a vague gesture towards their tethered mounts. “My horse has thrown a shoe. Could you...?”

In two paces the smith was standing beside Megan and lifting her fore-hoof. Corlin and Otty exchanged glances. The minstrel muttered “I never even told him which one it was.”

He would have sworn the ground trembled when the big man spoke. “I could tell by the way she was standing.” He nodded towards Otty. “Anyway, stands to reason yon stocky feller would be riding the cob.”

As he led Megan past the two men and into the forge, a knowing and surprisingly gentle smile crossed his face and flowed into his eyes. “I reckon I’ve got a shoe that’ll fit her.”

Corlin was lost for words. Megan was the worst when it came to blacksmiths and new shoes. Now she stood quietly, not even quivering as the giant smith trimmed her hoof. He ran his big hands over her neck and shoulder before going inside to choose a shoe. Minutes later he was back, the hot shoe gripped in a pair of sturdy tongs. The uniquely acrid odour of singeing hoof filled the air and it seemed to Corlin that in no time at all, the shoe was fitted and nailed. He silently swore that he was going to give Megan a good talking to. Never had she been so quiet and amenable while being shod; but that was for later. He fished in his tunic pocket for the quarter-silver.

The blacksmith held up a huge hand as his voice rumbled down at them. “No charge. It was my pleasure. It’s a good mare you have there. Now, I’ll wish you a good journey.”

Before Corlin or Otty could say anything, the big man had disappeared into the shadows of his smithy.

With Megan’s hoof in his hand, Corlin studied the new shoe. It was indeed a well crafted shoe and a perfect fit, but bore a pattern of marks unlike anything he had seen before. He pointed them out to Otty.

The stocky man bent down, peered and shrugged. “It’s probably the smith’s mark.” He grinned. “Unusual smith, unusual mark.”

Corlin frowned. “Well, Megan has had her fair share of shoes, and I don’t recall any of them having any kind of mark.” He looked around as if weighing up the general area. “Perhaps they do things differently here.”

Back in the saddle the two men stopped at the crossroads. Otty glanced up at the sky, then nodded towards a wide road which led in a curve up a long shallow incline between rows of sturdy tile-roofed and half-timbered cottages. “I reckon we should go straight on up that road there. It’s not long past mid-day. If that road goes straight through town we can be a fair way on before nightfall.”

Corlin nodded. “Good idea. We can pick up something to eat on the way through.”

He had just made it to the other side when Corlin reined in. “Hang it all!”

Already a few paces ahead, Otty reined in and turned. “What?”

The minstrel shook his head and gestured to Otty to stay put. “I forgot something. I have to go back to the smithy.”

By the time he had waited for a pair of heavily laden carts to trundle past, Otty was beside him. “What did you forget?”

Corlin grimaced. “Wait there. I won’t be long.”

Back at the smithy, the minstrel scrambled out of the saddle, untied the sack containing the clock frame, and stepped cautiously inside the warm semi-darkness of the forge. The furnace still glowed but the bellows were idle and tools left where they had been finished with. There was no sign of the smith.

Corlin called out. “Hulloo! Anyone about?”

From somewhere at the rear of the building a door-latch clattered, and brisk footsteps sounded on the slate floor. A man, about Corlin’s height and build, but a few years older, with short-cropped dark hair and wearing a leather apron, stepped forward into the light of the furnace.

He rubbed his hands together and greeted Corlin with a bright smile. “Good day sir. How may I be of service?”

Corlin assumed that the man was the blacksmith’s apprentice or helper. “Good day to you. I was looking for the smith.”

The man’s smile widened. “Well, you’ve found him. I am he.”

Corlin shook his head. “No. The other one; the big tall man who shoed my horse a short while ago.”

The man’s smile faded, to be replaced by a look of puzzled disbelief combined with a thread of suspicion. “Nobody here but me. I’m Gwillem Smith. I’ve worked this smithy single-handed since my pa, also Gwillem, died some four years since.”

Sensing that something wasn’t quite right about this whole business, Corlin muttered his thanks. As he limped outside, Gwillem called after him “What did you want anyway? Is something wrong with the shoe?”

Corlin re-secured the sack behind the cantle, climbed into the saddle and studied the smithy and its surroundings for a moment before calling back. “No. The shoe is perfect.”

Deep in thought and thoroughly perplexed, he just avoided being mown down by a cart as he crossed the road. The carter hurled a mouthful of abuse and Otty grinned as Corlin settled his highly indignant mount. “So, you ready for the off now?”

Corlin scowled and nodded as he turned Megan’s head towards the wide street up the long hill. “More than you know. If it hadn’t been for that shoe, I wouldn’t have stopped at all.”

Risking the displeasure of some of the local population, he urged Megan into a canter, giving Otty no choice but to follow.

Back at the smithy a voice spoke from behind Gwillem. “You did well. Now we shall see.”

Neither of them was in a very good mood. Everything in Carthold seemed expensive and there was little prospect of their reaching another town before the few foodstuffs they had been able to afford ran out. Corlin had been hoping to buy a new hat to replace the one he had lost in the Whispering Forest, but the price of even a soft woollen cap dictated that he continue the journey bareheaded.

Otty grumbled as they left the market and headed up the long hill and out of town. “I reckon they must have seen us coming.”

The strange experience at the smithy was still on Corlin’s mind. There was a wry twist to his mouth as he looked across at his fellow traveller. “I’m sure somebody did. If I didn’t know better I’d be inclined to think they don’t want us to stay too long.”

But even as he said it, the minstrel wondered if he really did know better. The stallholders in the market had not been hostile, but they weren’t friendly either. Both he and Otty had been pushed and jostled without apology, and the curt exchanges as they made their purchases had only just bordered on polite.

Otty chuckled in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Let’s hope there’s spring grass for the horses on the way. Y’never know, we might be eating it ourselves.”

Corlin didn’t think the situation would get that desperate, but he said nothing, and the two men rode on in silence to the top of the long hill until the road took them over level ground and Carthold was far behind them. As the afternoon wore on the light grew progressively poorer, and eventually Otty eased Egg alongside Corlin on the narrow rutted road.

He gave a nod towards the north-east and the dark rainclouds that were moving fast towards them. “What d’you think of that lot then?”

Corlin eyed the approaching storm and answered with a question. “How far’s the next town? Any idea?”

Otty thought for a moment. “Well, according to one chap I actually managed to get some sense out of, there’s a town called Dunmoor just over a day’s ride from Carthold.”

There was no need for either of them to say anything further. Without a doubt they were going to get wet. The final rays of a watery sunset broke through behind them, casting a broad swath of deep shadow across the road where it dipped and threaded through a tunnel of overhanging trees a couple of hundred yards ahead. The two men eyed the broad spread of woodland with some misgivings as they were bombarded by the first large drops of rain.

Urging Megan into a trot, Corlin called over his shoulder as he headed for the trees. “At least there’ll be a bit of shelter in there. It looks harmless enough.”

The trees through which the rutted road led were mostly beech and birch, their open tracery of branches giving little protection, so the pair headed for a thick stand of conifers and evergreens some way ahead which promised at least a modicum of comfort until the worst of the storm had passed. Surprised by Megan’s apparent eagerness to push her way through, frequently subjecting him to the spiteful slap of low-growing branches, he tried to rein her in so he could dismount but she was having none of it.

Having already dismounted, Otty followed, leading Egg in their wake but sounding not a little concerned as he called forward. “Where are you charging off to?”

The sound of hastily trampling hooves and crashing foliage suddenly ceased, and for a minute or two there was no reply.

Otty was just consoling himself with the fact that, as there were a few birds singing somewhere, there couldn’t possibly be anything to worry about, when Corlin called out “Come and look at this!”

The minstrel had managed to dismount and was standing at the entrance to a low, wide-mouthed cave, craning his neck to try and see the top of a massive sheer rock face. Hidden by the dark evergreens and trees pressed close against it, and impossible to see from the road, it offered ideal shelter from the thunderstorm which rumbled like empty barrels overhead.

Corlin grinned as he led Megan inside. “That’s horse sense for you. We’d never have found this otherwise.” He peered around the inside of the cave then jerked his head at Otty. “Come on. There’s room for all of us.”

The two men breathed a sigh of relief, staring at each other as lightning crackled through the trees only feet away from where they had been standing. The brief flash of light had illuminated the cave’s interior just enough for them catch a glimpse of the rear wall. A perfect arch, just wide enough for two horses to stand side by side, had been cut into the rock. Before Corlin could stop her, Megan had walked forward under the arch and showed every sign of carrying on ahead. Not given to panic but certainly very worried, Corlin hobbled after her, just managing to grab the leading rein before a curve in the tunnel plunged them into darkness. He hauled on the rein, and Megan reluctantly pulled up. Behind him he could hear the sound of Egg’s hooves on the tunnel’s rough hewn stone floor.

With his hand on Megan’s neck he called quietly “I can’t see a blasted thing, and there’s hardly room to turn round.”

To his surprise, Otty’s voice was trembling. “Erm...you might not believe this, but I saw it happen; the cave entrance has been sealed.”

Corlin gulped hard. With one hand on the tunnel wall he began to make his way back. As he rounded the curve, the touch of Egg’s hot breath on his face stopped him just in time from barging into her. The darkness was absolute. If the cave entrance had been open, Corlin knew it would have given enough light for him to at least see Otty silhouetted against it.

He stroked Egg’s soft nose as the cob nuzzled his shoulder. “Who sealed it; did you see?”

Otty sounded a little calmer. “No. There was this shimmering, all sort of grey and swirly, then it just...well...vanished!”

The minstrel gave a deep sigh of resignation. “More magic.” He thought for a few moments. “So, d’you reckon we’re meant to be here, or was that some trap for unwary or nosy travellers?”

Uncharacteristically pragmatic, Otty gave a little cough. “Look at it this way. Either we can wait here in the dark, and hope that the entrance opens again, or we can carry on in the dark and hope that the tunnel leads somewhere. I reckon the cave was sealed so we
would
go on. Otherwise, why bother?”

Corlin’s reply betrayed a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Whatever we do, we’ll still be in the blasted dark.”

There was a hint of false optimism in his companion’s bright reply. “I’ve got my tinderbox somewhere.”

The remark was greeted with a snort of derision. “Yeah? And what are you going to light with it?”

Otty’s silence spoke volumes, and eventually Corlin gave a little chuckle. “C’mon, you silly bugger, let’s find out where this goes. It must go somewhere, otherwise why build it?”

With not enough head height for them to ride, they held their animals at a steady amble and set off along the tunnel.

Otty’s good-natured grumble wafted down through the darkness. “We’re like a pair of bloody moles.”

Corlin chuckled again. “At least we shan’t have to eat worms; not for a while anyway.”

All he received in response was a grunt, and for a good while the only sound was the steady clop of hooves, and their own breathing.