The Weight of Grain

Marek gripped the reins, his furred tail stiff along the wagon seat. The spearman stood beside the mule.

Behind him lay the first grain sent down from the Valley. The larger shipment would follow. In the yard, Marek had tied a courier’s satchel shut with a spare bootlace after its buckle broke. The man had ridden ahead with word of the grain.

The river ran below the road on his right, beyond a short gravel slope. Woods rose on his left. Across the water, roots hung from a low bank beneath grass and trees.

The wolf ahead was nearly as large as the man facing it.

“Keep him still,” the spearman said.

Marek drew the reins in. The mule tossed its head.

He had seen wolves follow wagons, keeping to the trees until something fell behind. His guards had scarcely spoken when this one appeared. The spearman took the mule’s shoulder; the shieldwoman went to the rear, on the river side.

The wolf edged toward the mule. The spearman thrust. It sprang back, then moved toward the other shoulder. He brought the spear across its path, his brow furrowed.

“Back him,” the shieldwoman said. “Slowly.”

The mule took a reluctant step.

A grey wolf came out behind the wagon. The shieldwoman drove it clear of the wheels.

Another darted toward the mule from the river slope. The spearman cut across its shoulder. It scrambled away, leaving blood on the road, and the large wolf moved in at once.

He swung the spear back.

“Why won’t you—”

Two more wolves broke from cover. One sprang up the river slope into the shieldwoman’s shield. The other ran from the woods between her and the wagon. The wolf she had driven back came forward.

“Bring him back to me,” she called.

Marek pulled harder. The spearman glanced toward her, and the large wolf rushed the mule’s face.

The spear swept around. The mule reared and lunged sideways. A wheel dropped off the road into the soft bank. The wagon tilted and stopped.

Behind it, the shieldwoman drove her shield into one muzzle. Another wolf caught her legs. She dropped to one knee, her sword still moving.

The wolf nearest the tailboard slipped past her and climbed over the sacks.

“Jump, Marek!” the spearman shouted.

He dropped the reins and jumped. His boot slipped; his knee struck the road. Teeth caught his coat and pulled him backward.

He tore his arms from the sleeves and stumbled clear, leaving the coat in the wounded wolf’s jaws.

It dropped the coat and blocked his way up the road. Beyond it, the large one was still moving around the spear. Marek turned. The grey wolf stood behind the wagon. He could hear the shieldwoman fighting, the spearman shouting his name.

Below the road, the river lay open.

He looked at the roots on the far bank. He could reach those. In the water he could keep the weight off his leg.

Gravel slid beneath his boots as he ran down the slope. He was almost at the water when teeth closed around his tail.

His bad knee folded. The wolf jerked him onto his hands. He kicked, but the grip only tightened.

His knife.

His fingers caught his shirt.

The knife was in his coat.

He twisted onto his side and caught a stone from the gravel. The first blow glanced off the muzzle. The second landed hard, and the wolf let go.

Marek dragged himself into the shallows and pushed off with his sound foot. He pulled beneath the surface, gliding clear before coming up for breath.

He let his bad leg trail. His tail turned him toward the far bank; the bite burned, and he kept the next sweep smaller. Behind him, the wounded wolf stopped at the water’s edge.

He caught a hanging root and hauled himself into the grass.

He had made it.

Across the river, the mule was still screaming.

Marek pushed himself upright. He could get into the trees. Find a house, a field, someone.

A wolf rose from the grass ahead of him. Another stood beneath the trees to his right.

Neither was wet.

He turned toward the roots. The second wolf ran slantwise along the bank, cutting him off. His knee folded as he tried to pass it.

The first sprang. He raised his arm, and its teeth closed around his forearm. It jerked him onto his side. The other caught his bad leg as he dug his heel into the grass to turn toward the river.

Neither let go.

On the water below him, the large wolf’s head was coming toward the roots.

Marek clawed at the grass. Teeth tightened on his arm, stopping him.

The large wolf climbed out beside him, water dripping from its coat onto his legs.

Its flank was raw and swollen. Marek took it for a wound. Then the exposed flesh tightened beneath the ragged coat, moving out of time with its breathing.

Other wagoners had spoken of beasts whose bodies changed. One had shown him the scars around his wrist and sworn that something moved beneath the animal’s skin.

Marek had never known how much to believe.

The wolf gripping his forearm jerked backward. Pain scattered the thought.

The bread he had saved was still beneath the wagon seat. Wrapped up for the return journey. He could picture the cloth tucked beside his water flask.

He had meant to eat it on the way home.

The huge wolf stepped over his legs.

It lowered its head. He could see the red at the roots of its teeth. He opened his mouth to call to the guards. The bank tipped and went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, his cheek was against a boot. He reached for the ankle. The leg rolled toward him, and he saw the man’s face. His eyes were open, with dirt in the lashes.

Roots hung through the low roof of the den. A little light came down the slope at its mouth. Marek tried to sit up. The pain in his bitten arm put him back on his side.

A gold sun caught the light on the next man’s coat. Under it were the fine lines of the Valley crest. The satchel strap was still across his chest. Marek knew the knot in the bootlace. He’d tied it himself.

He knew the face, too. The Valley’s first courier. Marek had counted on him being there when they unloaded.

There were bodies all along the wall. A carter’s apron lay stiff and dark over one of them. Another still had pale road grit caked on the hem of her coat. Farther back there were bones with scraps of wool between them.

Something scraped at the mouth. A wolf backed down the slope, dragging a man by his collar. When the man’s heel caught on a root, a second wolf took the leg and pulled it clear. The first let go and went straight back up the slope. The other settled across the opening, facing in.

Marek drew his good hand in beneath his chest. The wolf’s eyes followed it.

His knuckles brushed the courier’s belt. There was a knife there. He eased it free beneath the satchel.

Something moved above the entrance. The wolf turned its head, then stood and moved aside. Marek got his good knee under him. He crawled up the slope with the knife in his fist.

He could see grass at the top when the light narrowed. A paw came down on his bad leg. Above him the raw flesh in the huge wolf’s flank tightened again.

The wolf lowered its head. Marek slashed at it. The blade cut its mouth open, and it drew back.

Its lower jaw shifted and parted down the middle. The two halves settled with a gap between them. Marek could still see the cut bleeding off to one side.

The wolf bent over him again. He tried to call out.

Its muzzle pushed beneath his jaw. The jaws closed.

The cry never left his throat.

Ravik knew Volken’s walk well enough to recognize a bad morning. He set the basket down before the old man could offer to help.

The old Bevron moved his broad, flat tail clear of the gate and straightened slowly, one hand pressed to his lower back.

“Morning. The crossing keep you late?” Ravik asked.

“Until dark.” Volken shifted the rake to his other hand. “Should have stopped to straighten up.”

Grain dust itched in the short, spotted fur at his throat.

“Anything about the grain?”

Volken took a folded reply from his coat and held it out.

The village’s request for a grain advance had been received. Nothing about how much grain, or when. Ravik turned the sheet over. The back was blank.

“What’s taking them so long?”

“Could still be counting it. But buyers are gathering cart axles, long timbers and heavy rope in the Upper Valley. The last time they wanted so much grain, I was building siege carts.”

“You think there’s more to it?”

“I think we need the grain before they finish deciding.”

Ravik handed the reply back. Volken tucked it into his coat.

“We’d better get the water moving, then.”

“That’s where I’m headed. How much have you left?”

Ravik looked at the baskets waiting in the lane.

“A few more yet. I’ll come out when we’re done.”

Narev grunted beside the cart. A sack hung over the tailboard, dragging him forward. Cream feathers fanned from the young Dukro’s cheeks, their tips dusty with grain.

Volken rested his rake against the gatepost and caught the hanging end against his shoulder.

“Lift your end.”

“I am lifting it.”

“Towards me.”

They lowered it together. Volken kept one hand on the cart as he straightened.

“There. Now you can pull it.”

Narev dragged the sack beside the others.

“That’s the last from the high strip.”

Two drying racks stood empty. Before the cutting, they’d talked of borrowing another.

Below the yard, water shone among the uncut grain. Ravik had helped resow the flooded gaps with grain Narev’s mother had meant to grind. Later he had helped count their bins for the village’s request for a grain advance. Rain during the cutting had flattened ripe heads and left grain drying beneath every spare roof.

Volken looked toward the flooded strips.

“Your father cutting below today?”

“If he can stand in it.”

Across the lane, a guard was setting a table beneath the storehouse porch. The collector waited with his book under his arm.

“Pa told him we’d try to bring the rest this morning,” Narev said.

“Then I’ll start at the pool,” Volken said. He picked up his rake. “Come when you’re done.”

He took the field path.

Outside the gate, Narev’s sister Ruvani crouched beside another full basket. She took one handle and looked up at Ravik.

“Take that end, would you? I was about to drag it.”

“You’d have worn through the bottom.”

“I know. That was why I was still looking at it.”

He caught the other handle. Together they carried it through the gate.

Ruvani brought bundles from the wetter strips; Narev measured and dried the grain. Both could find fallen heads beneath the ripples where other carriers missed them. The lower plots were too deep for that now.

Once the baskets were emptied, Ravik helped measure the grain into sacks and turn what was still drying beneath the yard roofs. Nearly two hours had passed since Volken left when they finally cleared the space beside the cart.

Narev brushed loose kernels from a tray into a sack. He picked kernels from the dirt as well, rubbing off the grit before adding them to a little bowl.

Across the lane, the collector’s book lay open. The guard stood beside the steps, spear upright.

“How much this time?” Ravik asked.

“Five sacks.”

“You brought four at the last collection.”

“Pa told him. Five’s what they put down for this season.”

“And the lower plots?”

“Still count. It was set before the cutting.”

“Ma’s keeping the seed apart,” Ruvani said. “She told us not to bring those sacks out.”

“The small cup for meals now,” Narev said.

Ravik knew the cup. Before, he could take more without asking. Narev’s mother used to send him to fetch the meal while she tended the pot, calling after him to fill the measure properly.

He had never thought much about what remained in the bin after he put it back.

“Ma’s gone without supper the last two nights,” Ruvani said.

Narev drew the sack’s mouth closed.

“She’s keeping it for us until we cut below.”

“Then don’t bring him the fifth,” Ravik said.

“Pa’s the one who has to answer for that. Until the Valley changes the amount, the missing sack goes against the next collection.”

“He can’t give away what you need to eat.”

“He says he’ll have to sell the cart if the lower crop’s gone.”

Ruvani looked at the cart beside them.

“Then we bring the next cutting in on our backs.”

Narev pulled the cord tight.

“We know, Rik.”

Ravik waited for him to say they would keep the sack. Narev bent over the knot again.

Ravik could help them carry a few sacks. He could not promise to carry their next harvest. He looked for something else to lift, but the baskets were empty.

Across the lane, the guard shifted beside the table. Ravik had seen him checking bank paths and crossings. He wished the man were out doing that now.

“Tell Volken Pa can help tomorrow, if he needs people,” Narev said.

“I will. If Pa goes, I’ll help you cut.”

“If we can get into it,” Ruvani said.

Ravik almost told her they would. He and Volken had always got the water moving again. He had not even looked at it yet.

“Come back this way,” she said. “Let us know what you find.”

“I will.”

There was still the drain. Ravik went out through the gate.

Neli called his name a few houses along the lane. Her hair was in a high ponytail, her cream satchel over one shoulder.

“Have you eaten?”

“I was going to when I got back.”

“When would that be?”

“I don’t know.”

The young Othren fell into step beside him, her tail swaying. She unwrapped a piece of bread. She had saved him the thick end crust.

“You remembered.”

“You always take it first.”

He accepted it with a smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He broke off a piece as she tucked the cloth away.

“Are you coming all the way out?”

“Only to the first crossing. I’m taking meal to the house beyond it. They filled the collector’s measure this morning.”

“I could carry another basket for you when I come back.”

“There isn’t another basket to take.”

Ravik looked at the satchel.

“Have you enough left at home?”

“For us. That’s why this is the last I can bring for now.”

He held out what remained of the bread.

“Take this too.”

She folded his fingers back around it.

“I measured their meal. They’ll have supper. You’ve been working all morning.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I’ll look in our bin again tonight.”

He took another bite. The crust scraped the roof of his mouth.

Beyond the gardens, they followed the higher edge of the fields. The grain heads stood clear, but a cutter would have to work half afloat. Each bundle would have to be kept above the water on the way out.

Ruvani would need to know how long it would take to fall. He could at least find what was holding it there.

Volken came around the bend as they reached the first crossing, his rake on his shoulder and gray hair damp at the temples.

He shifted a loose plank onto its beam and tested it before stepping across.

“Missing a peg,” he said. “I’ll fix that later.”

His eyes went to the bread.

“You’ve got him fed as well?”

“He hadn’t eaten,” Neli said.

“He wasn’t always so pleased to be helped,” Volken said. “First time I pulled him out of a channel, he put his claws through my coat.”

“Volken.”

“Told him to wait while I got a line. He walked right out on rotten gate timber. Came back next morning with rope and asked where I wanted him.”

“I patched the coat.”

“You did. Still have it. Good patch, too.” Volken glanced at Neli. “He was a good bit shorter when he came to me.”

Neli smiled. Ravik brushed crumbs from his fingers.

Volken always left out the part where the timber dipped. He’d shouted for Ravik to take a step back. Ravik had heard every word. He’d tried to lift his foot and couldn’t.

Neli took the smaller path toward the house beyond the crossing. He watched her go.

“The water’s the other way,” Volken said.

“I know.”

Ravik’s ears went back.

“Thought you were going for tools.”

“I am. Listen first.”

Volken held out the rake. Ravik took it, settling its weight in his hands.

“The bars are clear. It hardly changed the level.”

“It was running yesterday.”

“After the flush. Try that again, then check the outlet.” Volken glanced back along the path. “Twice lately I’ve felt the stone shake. Grinding, then a knock. Last time, the water rushed through as if I’d raised the gate.”

“Had you?”

“No. I checked the handle. Something shifting in the passage, perhaps. Nothing moved while I was there today.”

Ravik looked along the channel toward the trees.

“Rake from the pad,” Volken said. “If you feel that knocking, leave it and come back. Leave the winch until I’m there to watch the stone.”

Ravik nodded.

“Narev says his pa can help tomorrow.”

“Might need him. Some of the fallen heads are spoiled already.” Volken moved his tail clear of the crossing. “Come and find me when you know what we need.”

Ravik took the path beside the channel.

The grain plots lay in a hollow below the village. Their ditches fed the main channel toward the rocky ridge. Paths climbed over it; the water had only one low way through, beneath the old works to the lower channel beyond.

Ravik followed the water toward the trees, looking for muddy edges that should have been showing by now.

He should have heard it before he reached the shade. Usually the rush down the stone steps carried through the trees. Today he heard only leaves.

The channel widened into the stone-lined pool. Volken’s heap of wet reeds lay at its edge. A timber gate stood in grooves at the far end. Beyond it, broad steps descended to the barred water passage beneath the building.

A separate flight of dry steps rose to the stone door above the pool. Its two full-height leaves fitted tightly into the frame. Volken’s chisel had left a shallow scar beside its seam. He and Volken had never got it open.

Ravik crouched at the water’s edge. The level notch was submerged. Silt scarcely moved beneath the gate, though water was still arriving from the fields.

He pulled the long wooden flush handle. The gate normally left a narrow gap for water to pass beneath. Raising it should have sent the held water down the steps, carrying loose stems and silt through the rock.

He dropped a chip into the pool. It drifted a little, then stopped.

He held the gate raised while the disturbed silt settled. The chip stayed where it was. The notch remained underwater.

He set the handle back. He would have to look at the other end.

The outside path took him around the rocky shoulder to the upper terrace. He passed the wooden winch, its rope leading down to the stone slab across the outlet below, and followed the dry walk to the stairs.

He left the winch alone. Volken would need someone watching below when they lifted it.

At the foot of the stairs, a dry stone pad lay to the outlet’s left. The slab stood in grooves across the recessed mouth. Water dribbled through holes in its face and seeped between the roots beneath its lower edge. Dead reeds and dark muck filled the spaces behind them.

The entrance was clear. The flush had failed. This was where the water was being held.

He would clear what he could reach and go back for Volken.

Ravik moved along the pad and lowered the rake among the stems, feeling for the sill.

Ripples spread from the tangle. He stopped the rake.

The stems shifted again. Ravik eased back onto his heels.

A toad pushed between them and hauled itself onto the stone.

He let out his breath and moved his foot as it sprang onto the pad.

The toad had left a gap. He worked the rake into it, drawing out dead stems and leaves. Mud oozed into the space they left. Farther inside, the teeth caught against a thicker knot.

He crouched beside the recess’s left corner and fed the rake diagonally beneath the slab. When he lifted, the tangle rose with it, but would not come free.

He lowered the rake, shifted one hand down the shaft and leaned closer, trying to turn the teeth clear.

The rake jerked inward.

Ravik’s feet slid before he could brace them. His shoulder struck the corner, driving the breath out of him. Cloth tore against the stone.

He released the shaft with one hand and caught the wall.

One of the roots had folded around the shaft.

Through the tangled stems, he saw thick fingers tighten. A pale crease opened at a joint, then vanished beneath a dark strip of skin.

The handle pulled again.

The rake dragged his arm straight. His other hand slid across the wall, finding nothing to hold.

Ravik let go of the shaft.

The rake scraped over the sill and vanished beneath the slab.

The weeds parted. An eye caught the light, low behind them. He glimpsed a pale jaw and teeth closing around the shaft.

A clump of reeds shifted behind its head, exposing more black muck packed into the passage.

Wood cracked.

He pushed away from the corner. His heel slipped, and he came down hard on one hip.

A heavy blow struck the stone from inside.

The slab shuddered in its guides. Water slapped across the pad.

A scraping sound came from behind the slab.

Ravik shoved himself backward.

He got his feet beneath him and stood, keeping his good hand against the wall. Blood had begun to darken his torn sleeve.

He backed toward the steps. Beneath the slab, stems shook against one another.

His heel struck the bottom tread.

He turned and climbed. His wet boot slid on the next tread, and his knee struck stone. He dragged himself higher with his good hand against the wall.

Below him, something hit the cover again.

He climbed past the stair turn and onto the terrace. Beyond the winch, he took the dry path around the rock toward the upper pool.

The rake broke. He could still hear it. Those fingers had closed around the shaft where his own hands had been.

His sleeve caught against the stone. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he pulled himself free.

The water would not fall while the outlet stayed choked. Ruvani was waiting to hear when they could cut.

Volken would be coming with the spades.

Ravik tried to call his name, but he had too little breath. He pushed away from the wall and hurried toward the trees, holding his arm against his side.

Another heavy blow sounded behind him.

He had to reach Volken before he came down those stairs.