Old Times

Two hunters led the way through Runetown while Anna and Clara followed. Two more hunters followed closely behind. Anna was grateful that Clara had negotiated her being unbound. The thought of people seeing her led by a rope or chains would have been humiliating. Not to mention it would make avoiding the puddles in the streets even more challenging.

The earlier morning drizzle had progressed to a steadier rain. Clara’s expression was stern as she carried what provisions she had been able to put together on short notice. Anna carried only her modern clothes and the folded funeral pall, both wrapped securely in waxed cloth, along with boiled water from the fireplace cauldron.

The water was particularly inconvenient, sloshing and swinging about in a trio of leather waterskins, two hanging off her left shoulder, one off her right. They were constantly in motion, bumping repeatedly against her hips. The strap on the right shoulder pulled at her painful joint, digging into her numb skin, which was starting to prickle with the sensation of the nerves awakening.

Clayton trailed further back, carrying the other bare necessities the women could not. Food, blankets, a fire-starting kit, and a lantern. Every ounce mattered if they were going to have to carry it on their own for some thirty miles to the capital. Aside from Anna’s bundled modern clothes, they would arrive with only the clothes on their backs.

With the hour of travel preparation, dawn had arrived. The town was coming to life. Anna, on the other hand, wasn't. “Coffee,” she muttered softly with longing. People they passed stared. Clara stared back, causing them to avert their eyes.

Despite having been summoned less than a day and a half ago, Anna found herself already longing for modern conveniences. A nice hot flavorful cup of coffee to wake up to, cradled in her hands and warming them, the aroma of a lovely cinnamon roast filling her senses. Anna closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sighed wistfully with a content smile, almost able to imagine it into being.

This was her second morning without the elixir of life. If she wasn’t magic-locked, she would certainly script a spell for the perfect cup. Unfortunately, Anna knew all she would conjure up was some kind of death wish brew.

‘The best part of wakin' up,’ Stylus sang with obnoxious cheer, ‘is magic in your cup!’

She refused to dignify that with a reply.

Being wet wasn’t much fun either. Clara’s wool dress and cloak helped repel some of the rain but being constantly rain-dampened was getting old fast. Clara had covered their ankle-high leather shoes in white animal grease, but it was only temporary water resistance.

“I hope we can find a generous soul,” Clara thought aloud as they made their way along the cobbled street, nearing the town gate.

“Witches deserve nothing,” said one of the leading hunters.

“Only death,” added the other.

“Your kind has ruined the realm. Why do you choose to write when all it does is harm?”

“Do not blame the words,” Clara replied. “Rather, the one who forms them.”

Neither man said anything else.

The horse-hire yard near the town gate was a simple affair, the yard wall constructed of a mix of both charred stone and horizontal wooden fencing. The stones showed signs of residual mortar, indicating that they had come from another structure. Along one side was a timber stable, with grooms busy with their morning tasks. Anna and Clara approached, accompanied by two of the hunters. The others hung back for the time being, avoiding the strong smell of hay, horses, and manure.

“We will be needing our horses now,” said one of the hunters to a groom. The man gave a nod and hurried off to fetch some additional help.

Clara noticed a familiar wagon parked under an open-sided shed along the edge of the yard.

“Have you seen the old wagoner?” she asked another groom.

A nod and a point directed their attention toward the stable. Inside were two rows of stalls separated by wooden partitions. Anna and Clara headed down the center aisle, finding the old man in one of the stalls, curry comb in hand, working it over Astra’s coat. The old mare stood there patiently as the man slowly moved the comb over her body, whispering gentle words of affirmation and complimenting her enduring beauty.

Astra’s ears swiveled and she gave a soft nicker.

“Hello again,” the man greeted, not turning from his meticulous work.

Clara tightened her mouth and swallowed. “I beg your pardon.”

“No need to beg, young lady.”

“I have no means to pay at this time, but would you be willing to transport my friend, my son, and me to the capital?”

“What do you say, Astra, should we give the nice people a ride? Maybe for some delicious honey bread?”

The old mare flicked an ear and nudged him with her muzzle.

“One more grand adventure indeed.” He smiled and chuckled. “Just like old times.”

“Thank you so much,” Clara said, her voice wavering. “I will make sure to make you both some honey bread upon our return.”

“See if your son can borrow some bows for the wagon. He and I can put the oiled canvas over them so you can ride inside out of the rain.” He shook his head. “Terribly strange weather for this time of year.” He grimaced. “I have never much cared for that road in poor weather.”

“Unfortunately, the matter is urgent and out of our hands,” Clara apologized. “But do not feel that you must. We will find another way.”

The man held a hand up. “Young lady, no need to ask anyone else. Astra is the surest-footed in the realm.” He patted the mare lovingly on the neck. “Won the King’s Plate twice in successive years. You will be borne by horse royalty.”

Clara smiled weakly and looked away, hiding her wet eyes.

“Thank you again, Astra,” Anna said softly.

The old mare looked at her for a long time.