Chapter 1
The Sickness
 
  A light breeze, heavy with the promise of spring rain, stirred amongst the rubble that was all that remained of the village. Here and there a forlorn housewife or grim goodman prodded at the debris, tears smudging the ash and mud on their faces. A little closer to the village center more foundations stood undamaged, buried under collapsed walls and sunken roofs, while the rest of the villagers swarmed over them.
  Shouts and barked commands occasionally could be heard over the general clamor, as the people labored to repair the damage from winter’s last terrible storm. The howling winds and freezing rain would remain in everyone’s memory for the rest of their lives. The mere sound of the wind, like demons shrieking around their chimneys and walls, and the occasional crash of another house collapsing from pounding rain and tearing gale, chilled the blood of even the hardiest. Many gave thanks to the Goddess that few had been hurt, and none had died despite it all. The village hall and the stone inn had withstood the storm, sheltering the villagers behind rough stone walls.
  Now, in the broad light of day, the magnitude of the destruction became evident. To an outside observer, the words “hopeless” and “ruined” suggested themselves, although “devastated” and “gone” lumbered forward. But these were Boggington folk, swamp miners, trappers, and swamp farmers, and “stubborn” did not begin to describe them. They took the destruction of their village with the air of inevitability. Just as they accepted that it could all be rebuilt and the buildings made fair once more.
  “There’s always a bad storm, and there’s always some destruction.” They seemed to say, “We rebuild, and that’s that.”
  Near the Northern edge of town there were two great bonfires already blazing. Most of the longer logs had been turned to kindling and firewood for next winter, but the broad roof beams and splintered walls were burning, and sod from roofs and twisted trees were piled high near them, ready to burn. The fire roared as it consumed while figures watched it like a hawk and others brought more fuel from the ruin.
  One figure was different from the others, even the oxen and horses that pulled the other sleds. From the waist up she appeared to be a normal girl of the village; long blond hair done up tightly in a bun, full red lips, a splash of light freckles on her cheeks, bright blue eyes and a modest figure. Her tunic was certainly normal, a white shirt with a stout wool overshirt dyed a deep green and a wide leather belt that encircled her waist.
  Yes, from the waist up she was a desirable young woman, but from the waist down she had the body of a horse! Her form was that of a draft, with a barrel chest, massive shoulders and haunch, and legs as thick around as young trees. Her mane and tail was the same color as her hair, and across her rump was a large patch of white spots, contrasting her grey hide beautifully. She was a centaur, Storm Walker the centaur, to be precise, and she walked with a gentle grace belying her large size.
  Alan watched his friend very closely as she pulled the sled full of debris from the village to the bonfire. The wood tottered and threatened to fall as the runners went over rocks and ruts, but Stormy never slowed. Sure-footed and stronger than most of the draft animals, Alan worried that she was pushing herself too hard. She hadn’t eaten or taken any breaks in a long while, since lunchtime he realized, and it was nearly suppertime now. Yet she seemed mulishly determined to continue working, as if trying to clean up the whole village by herself. Of course, that would be impossible and there were plenty of others to help, but that didn’t seem to stop her.
  At last, Alan spotted relief. His sisters, Sabrina and Mary were walking around with a water bucket, giving ladleful’s of drink to thirsty people. Giving a shout, he called them over and stopped Stormy by pulling on one of the traces.
  “Here now, Stormy.” He said. “Let’s get you some water before you pass out.”
  “I’m fine, master.” She gasped tiredly. “I can keep working for a little while longer.”
  “The devil you can.” Sabrina said cheerfully as she came up. Her green woolen dress had splashes of mud on the hem and on the sleeves, which she ignored. “You work any harder Stormy you’ll keel over! What will Alan do then?”
  “Be completely inconsolable and a mope!” Mary chimed in with a giggle. She was barely seven, and tagged along with her older siblings whenever she could get away from the watchful eye of their mother.
  “That’s right,” Alan agreed. “Besides, it’s past time that you take a break. Too long past, if you ask me, so you will stand there and drink your water, and then I’ll take you over to that tree and scrub you down and get rid of this foam while you rest. If there’s any time left in the day when that’s done, then we will get back to work.”
  “But master?” Stormy began.
  “No buts.” Alan said firmly. With no choice, Stormy hung her head, but Alan thought that was more due to tiredness than submission. He unbuckled the traces while his sisters fussed over Stormy, watching like eagles until she had finished the bucket. While they went to the stream to fetch more, Alan led her over to a large shady pine that had survived the storm. Fortunately, it had dried enough that any drips were few and far between while he worked.
  When he finally stood and stretched, he realized that Stormy was fast asleep, head tilted slightly forward as she stood. Sabrina and Mary were in front of her, whispering to each other. Alan could tell they were asking themselves whether they should wake her up and make her drink or just let her sleep. Catching their eyes, he shook his head and pointed towards the other workers. Nodding they slipped quietly away together, leaving Stormy asleep under the tree.
  As Alan joined the group that was feeding the fire, he accidently bumped the shoulder of a tall fair-haired youth roughly his own age. “Sorry, Tobias,” he apologized, “didn’t see you there.”
  His friend snorted. “Sure, because you’re so blind you can’t see past the end of your nose!” Alan chuckled. While it was true that he couldn’t see as far as most people in Boggington, he could still see well enough. “What brings you out this way?” Tobias asked. “I thought you and Stormy were bringing us wood?”
  “She’s sleeping.” Alan told him, pointing to the tree. “She overworked herself today.”
  “I’ll say.” Tobias agreed softly, looking concerned. “She hauled enough to keep us busy for the next three days all on her own.”
  “I’m going to keep her at the shop tomorrow.” Alan confided. “I want to keep her from pushing herself too hard. Besides, there’ll be plenty of work there to keep the both of us busy for days.”
  Tobias grimaced. “That and then some. Most of the tools will need to be sharpened before tonight, and I wager that quite a few will be broken afore we finish here.”
  Alan thought about his friend’s words and couldn’t fault them. In fact, several people had approached him already about replacing lost or broken tools. He promised to work on them as soon as he was able, but wasn’t sure when that would be. Tomorrow would be soon enough, he supposed with a smile. He turned back to his work, continuing to feed the branches into the fire for another hour before his father came stumping up to tell him dinner was ready.
  John Eagleheart was an older version of his son. They both had the same dark-brown hair and chiseled chins, and broad shoulders from their years of hard labor. However, silver was starting to creep in at the temples and his knee popped often when he walked.
  “All right father.” Alan said when his father finished. “I’ll get Stormy and be home directly.”
  “See that you are.” His father grunted. “Or your mother will have both our hides.” Alan laughed and agreed.
  As his father went back towards the house, he went to wake Stormy. She started with a gentle touch on her shoulder. She straightened hastily and brushed some hair from her brilliant face. Plainly, she had thought she had just fallen asleep and that Alan had only just finished brushing her. She noticed the sun setting and squealed.
  “Master Alan! How could you have let me sleep so long! There’s so much to do! I’ve got to get back to work and?”
  “Peace, Storm!” Alan held up a restraining hand. “You needed the sleep. Besides, it’s time for dinner. Everyone is heading back to the inn, and we need to get home.”
  Stormy looked ready to protest, but she swallowed whatever she had to say and meekly followed as Alan led the way back. Passing the rubble, Alan made note of how much work remained. It looked bad, but he was surprised about how much of it had already been taken away. Another day, perhaps two, and there would be enough clear to start rebuilding homes. He was thankful that his home, the only one in the district besides the inn, was made of stone, though he mourned for those who had lost everything. His father had labored long and hard to bring in enough to work with, as was only fitting for the only stonecutter in the village.
  As he walked into the small central yard, he was greeted by the warm sight of the rambling two-story with red slate emblazoned with light from its windows. Despite having shuttered them firmly, two were broken and had wood temporarily nailed into place. However, the rest of the damage was tremendously light, only a few slates had come off and the yard was a terrible mess, but Alan could not complain after seeing the rest of the village. He briefly wondered if the new houses would be made of stone, but put that thought away. There would be plenty of time to worry about such things in the morning.
  Inside the house, he found the fireplace blazing, the cauldron already boiling. Their house was empty save for themselves, the inn had more than enough rooms for the entire village, but Alan was unsurprised to see his mother had cooked enough stew to feed everyone. She would deliver it in the morning after warming it on the fire, making sure everyone was well fed before they started their labor.
  And speaking of which, there was his mother bustling around the kitchen, instructing the girls on setting the table with the sureness of a veteran. The girls needed little prompting anyway, except of course for little Mary, and the table was set and ready for dinner even before she had finished speaking.
  Alan went to wash up with Stormy before going to the kitchen. Stormy beat him there however, and asked politely if there was anything she could do to help. Alice assured her there wasn’t, the table was set and she would be bringing the swamp turkey in directly, she needed to take her seat.
  “But Mistress Eagleheart, I should bring it out.” Stormy protested.
  Alan frowned at his old friend. “Stormy, what’s with you? You’ve been calling us ‘master’ and ‘mistress’ all day. You know that you’re family and don’t go calling us that.”
  Stormy hung her head. “I’m still your slave. I’m supposed to be doing that.”
  “You are not our slave.” Alan said fiercely. “Who’s been telling you this?”
  “As if we had to guess” Sabrina said with an ugly look on her face, as if she had bitten into a rotten apple.
  Alan knew who she was referring too. “Stormy, did the Colson’s get to you?” he demanded. When she refused to meet his eye and answer, he knew he had hit it. He didn’t know what his face looked like at the time, but he didn’t doubt that it mirrored his father’s murderous fury exactly.
  “I’ll see Mark in the morning about those boys.” John growled. “If they don’t have anything better to do than make Stormy miserable, I’ll see if they can’t be put to work in the fields.”
  “You don’t have to!” Stormy looked alarmed.
  “Yes, I do” John told her. “Those boys are just being cruel and need to be taught a lesson. And that’s the final word on it.”
  “Yes, sir.” Stormy said unhappily. But Alan wasn’t sure what he could do about it. The best thing, he felt, was to simply drop it and move on.
  After dinner, everyone went to the kitchen to help with the dishes before retiring to the sitting room. The fire was already lit, filling the room with cheery warmth. Stormy carefully folded her legs under her and lay down next to the fire with Mary perched on her back. The little girl was busy brushing her long hair and chatting while Stormy held very still, occasionally punctuating the gossip with a comment of her own. Alice sat in the large soft chair next to John and was knitting what appeared to be another blanket for Mary. John was smoking his pipe and looking tired and worn. Which was a good deal like himself, Alan admitted. It had been a very long day.
  Still, he wasn’t about to let the day end yet. Cajoling his sister, he pulled a stones board from under the smaller table and set it up. Soon both were involved with the game, Alan holding his own against his sister. After about fifteen moves however, it became plain to him that he was in a losing fight. His sister’s pieces outnumbered his two-to-one and held the center strongly.
  “Ready to give up brother?” Sabrina teased.
  “Never.” Alan grinned. He had an idea, risky, but all that was left to him. Setting his strongest piece as bait, he lured Sabrina’s pieces into danger and beat her in eight moves. Sabrina stared at the board in surprise. Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure exactly when he had gained the upper hand. Alan leaned back and hid a smile. He knew he wouldn’t be able to use the same trick against her, she was too smart and canny a player to be fooled again.
  After a few moments of silence, Alan reached over the side of his chair to the stand where he kept his flute. Pulling it out of its box, he raised it to his lips and began to play. Silence filled the room as conversation stopped and people listened. Shadows lengthened as the fire died down and still Alan played on.
  After a while, Sabrina began to sing, swaying slightly to the rhythm. Mary joined in and finally Stormy, creating a three-part harmony that was strange and beautiful to hear. Alan listened to the words a little as he played;
 
Deep in the heart of the forest,
Where no man dares to dwell,
Stood a great city,
The city of Marinel

Their golden spires that reached the sky,
The fountains from which sweet water fell
The markets where hawkers cry
And the fair gardens of Marinel

Weep for the lost souls
Weep for the lost city of Marinel

The wise king, he sat on his throne
His fair court and lovely Queen,
Gave consult, but he decided alone
To answer the Pa’grund

Their hearts lusted after the riches of Marinel
The king tried to pay them to stay away
The Pa’grund just laughed and came anyway
With birds of fire and weapons of lightning to Marinel

Weep for the lost souls
Weep for the lost city of Marinel

On the day of battle the king stood
Surrounded by his army of good
The Pa’grund came with weapons of fire and light
The king rallied his forces and charged into the fight

Alas, the Pa’grund waited for his charge to come close
They slew all the warriors with ease they boast
And so fell the last warrior of Marinel
Without slowing their enemy so fell

The people they heard the call of doom,
And fled their palaces and halls
To die beneath the moon
Yes, they died beneath the moon.

The Pa’grund they laughed and jeered
They had won the city of Marinel
None stood to defend her riches
Any left alive fled in fear.

Weep for the lost souls
Weep for the lost city of Marinel

  At the end of the song Alan lowered his flute and there was only silence. The solemnity of the moment ended with his next song, Wind over the Trees, which was much livelier and soon had everyone clapping and laughing. After one last song, it was time for bed.
  Stormy bid everyone good night and went to the back of the house where she had a little room. It was as comfortable as they could make it, with a large straw mattress on the floor, soft pillows, and a washstand and dresser.
  Alan watched her tail disappear before the door closed behind her. He wished there was a way to reassure her that the words of the Colsons were not true. The thought stayed with him as he undressed and washed for bed. As he closed his eyes he decided that the belief in them was something Stormy would have to find for herself. She had been with them long enough to realize such things, he couldn’t understand why it made such a difference now. He resolved to find out exactly what the Colsons had said to her in the morning.
 
  The sound of the rooster crowing woke him, and he dressed quickly. Walking down the hallway to the stairs, he heard coughing from Mary’s room. Not a mere clearing of the throat, but a heavy hacking. Concerned, he went in.
  Inside her room he found her sheets a tangled mess and her eyes moving lightly through their lids. Concerned, Alan put his hand onto her forehead. Her skin was warm to the touch. Mary started awake, blearily focusing.
  “Alan?” she asked weakly.
  “I’m here Mary.”
  “Ughh. I feel terrible.” She groaned.
  “I have no doubt. You’re running a fever; you’ve probably caught a cold.” Alan told her gently.
  “Oh.” She murmured. Then she brightened. “That means I get to stay in bed today!”
  Alan grinned at her attempted levity. “Yes, but that also means that you get to be under mom’s care, and her soup!”
  Mary made a grimace that quickly vanished under another coughing fit. She lay back with a sigh. “All right.” she murmured. “Just let me sleep.”
  “Of course.” Alan said quietly. He slipped out silently and went downstairs to tell his mother. She looked alarmed and went upstairs to check on her while he snagged a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese for breakfast.
  She had not come back down again before he left for the forge, but he was not overly concerned. Mary was in the best hands in the village next to the Healer’s, and if it got any worse he had no doubt she would be summoned. His mother could handle colds readily enough; all he had to worry about was getting sick himself. He made a mental note to wash more thoroughly for the next few days and to heat water for baths. It was all he could do.
  The forge was already busy. A line extended down the road into town. Alan was surprised, he could already see Stormy walking down the line taking orders, and people waving at him and holding tools needing to be fixed.
  Sudden shouting caught his attention, and he saw Stormy in an argument with a rat-faced fellow named Sam Colby over a large chisel that had clearly been broken at the edge.
  “This chisel was supposed to be fixed yesterday and here it is, still a mess. I don’t care what excuses you have, you miserable nag. Get it Fixed, do ya hear me?! Fixed! Fixed! Fixed!” he screamed, spraying her with spit as she tried to reason with him. “I am going to lodge a complaint and if you know what’s good for you you’ll finish my tool and…“
  Alan felt his anger bubble up and decided to break in right there. “Mr. Colby!” Alan shouted, causing the folk in line to stare. Alan never shouted. “I was the one who was working on that chisel. As I recall, I had not finished it the other night when I closed the forge. I still needed to put the edge on the blade. How is it that you have it now, when I had not given it to you yet?”
  The sour-faced man wilted under Alan’s angry glare and started sputtering excuses. “Well, you see Alan, I knew I would need it when I got up this morning, so I went round to your place when I got home last night, but you had already gone off to bed, and there was my chisel lying there on the shelf. Well, I figured you were already done with it, so I just grabbed my chisel and…and left. he gulped, his pale face sweating under the accusing glare.
  “That’s called stealing, Mr. Colby.” Alan accused.
  “No!” cried Colby, ”Y-you don’t understand…”,
  But Alan went inexorably on. “You entered MY forge without permission, took a tool that, while it belonged to you, was not yet finished, and then come in here and start yelling at my assistant for no good reason. I have half in mind to tell Mr. Moody!” At this, Colby turned paler than milk. The village law was very clear on thieving, and the mayor was doubly so. Colby would be lucky to escape with a whole skin. “I won’t do that however, if you pay me for the work I have already done on that chisel, plus the work that I now have to redo, and give Stormy here a full apology.”
  Colby flushed, but really didn’t have much of a choice if he desired to remain in the village. Turning towards Stormy, his face red and his eyes angry, he muttered an apology and turned back to Alan without waiting to see if she would accept it. Alan saw the slight and thought about making him wait, but decided against incurring more of Colby’s wrath. Colby was merely contemptible, and he had more business already that he had to get on with. Taking the chisel from Colby’s hand, he glowered at the farmer’s back until he had disappeared. The line of people cheered; they congratulated him, and Stormy, as if they had won a fearsome battle. Alan was too angry to be moved by their applause, and went to the forge to work while Stormy, eyeing him strangely with a blush on her cheeks, continued to take orders in the line.
  Inside the forge Alan started working on a new shovel head for Joe Gatorson, one of the trappers working in the village. Using the bellows, he stoked the fire to the proper temperature and placed a hunk of iron in to warm. In a short time it was glowing a nice yellow, meaning it was ready to work. Using tongs to pull it out, he placed it on the anvil and rained blows upon it with his largest hammer. The metal rang like a bell and started to flatten. Every few minutes he stuck it back into the fire to reheat before pulling it back out to shape it some more.
  Slowly the lump spread thinner and thinner. He worked in a slight curve to it, and made a spot for the bracket. Setting the blade aside for now, he worked on the bracket until he had sized it for a long handle. Merging the pieces into one, he set it aside until it cooled.
  After that, he had the pots to make for Alice Cooper, and fresh barrel staves and hoops for Greg Cooper her husband. Mary Solson needed her blade reattached for her knife, and everyone needed nails and hammers, saws and axes. Alan remained in the forge while Stormy took orders from the thinning crowd and worked on some of the smaller items. She was a more than capable blacksmith in her own right, Alan thought, but she still refused to take her master’s test.
  The work went on and on, until night fell. Alan turned away from the hammer he had just finished when he saw Stormy banking the forge and the lanterns lit. Outside, the yard had grown very dark, and not another soul but them remained.
  “Is it suppertime already?” Alan asked. It did not seem possible.
  “Yes, it is,” Stormy replied, not bothering to look up from her work. “I sent the last customers away more than an hour ago.”
  “Good, good.” Alan said vaguely as he started to hang up his apron and put the finished pieces on the bench where they needed to go. “We had best get back to the house, or Ma will have our heads.” He chuckled at her exaggerated alarm, and companionably put his arm across her horse back when they went to the house.
  Inside, he found the fire was lit, the cauldron had already been removed, and supper laid out. But there was a space with no bowl or plate. Mary’s, he thought. She must be sicker than he originally believed, if Alice wasn’t going to let her come down to eat. He wondered briefly if she had already supped on soup before putting it out of his mind and sitting down to eat.
  Dinner was a solemn affair. No one wanted to speak or break the silence. Everyone seemed worried about Mary. sickness was fairly common in the village, especially during winter and after heavy storms, but it was never a pleasant experience. Sometimes, the afflicted would get truly sick from what had seemed a simple cold, and quickly be fighting for their life as the disease ravaged their bodies. If they survived, they were blasted, wasted folk that never lived very long after recovery.
  All these thoughts and more were on Alan’s mind as he helped wash up and retired to the sitting room. His eyes watched his mother as she grabbed her ball of yarn and went upstairs, Sabrina on her heels. Stormy looked like she, too, wanted to go with them, but the stairs would not take her weight and were too narrow.
  To distract both of them, he grabbed the stones board and set it out on the table. Stormy took the lead initially, but Alan soon caught up. He drew the game out as long as he could, not wanting to hurt her feelings or ending the game early and sit around worrying. Eventually however, he had her remaining pieces surrounded and finished the game in three short moves.
  “I will have to do better next time” she remarked casually. “You had me beaten after just a couple of minutes. If you hadn’t decided to stretch it out, we might have played another game or two.”
  Alan shook his head, he should have known better than to put anything over on her. She was much too smart for it, when she used her common sense.
  John stretched as he got up from his chair. “We should get to bed.” He rumbled. “We can do no good worrying here.”
  Alan couldn’t fault his logic, and bid the others good night. Ascending the stairs, he paused by Mary’s room. Peering through a crack in the door, he saw Sabrina and Alice sitting on either side of the bed. Mary made a small form under the sheets between them. With an apprehensive frown, he continued down the hall to his room.