🍂 Hemlock

Tooth & Nail: Chapter Two

Step into a world of chaos, magic, monsters, and bones. Welcome to TOOTH & NAIL—A dark fantasy novella. The first season will be released bi-weekly refer to Episode Schedule for a fuller account. Thank you for taking the time to read!

Previously: After poaching in the cold, Saskia and Jonas recieved grave news.

Sol Tine came early to Belgrav. It was a season where the mundane became magical. As the sun waned, farmers transformed into musicians and poor millers’ daughters dancers. The high-pitched melody of the gittern, tabor, and lute lilted through the village.

Yarrow was thirty-five summers old, yet she felt twice her age. Her hair was cut bluntly and tied back with a scarf instead of the ribboned braids of her youth. While a fair face and shining hair might have been an advantage for noblewomen, any trace of youth and beauty in commoners was often seen as a curse. Every time a lord passed her by, she was grateful for sun-flecked skin and the healer’s mark of protection around her neck.

She stepped over children playing with glass marbles and small sticks.

A merry golden-haired youth swayed raucously into her path. He blinked bleary eyes and smiled. Yarrow cursed, but two maidens spirited the boy away. They all stumbled their way into a dancing ring. She told herself they would all have splitting headaches by morning; that was punishment enough. Yarrow would let other women worry about courtship; she only wanted a good night’s rest.

“Healer!” a voice boomed across the crowd. A troupe of actors dove away from a large woman porting a tray of drinks. The ruffled actors readjusted their gilded masks. She watched as they slunk away leaving trails of shimmering paint behind them.

The tavern keeper, Imelza, shifted the tray to her hip and reached for a tall clay stein. She shoved the drink into Yarrow’s hands. Although she hadn’t earned more than a few coins during Sol Tine, Yarrow reached for the small leather purse at her belt. Imelza waved her away.

“Compliments of The Silver Rat, you earned it!” She beamed. “The gout would have taken my Stepen’s leg.” Her brow furrowed “What was the tonic again? I have a neighbor whose boy has the same thing.”

Yarrow cleared her throat. “It was a mixture of henbane and hemlock.”

Imelza tilted her head. “Forgive a tavern woman’s ignorance—“ she glanced at the moving river of villagers around them; drew in a sharp breath. “But is that not … ah shall we say, harmful?”

Yarrow braced herself for the storm of accusation. “If not properly applied, in your son’s case, I was able to crush the leaves and create a poultice to—“ Imelza’s eyes glazed over. “That’s lovely. Forgive me, but the Northmen have arrived," she licked her lips. “I hear they carry purses as heavy as their swords.” she said. “Men like that are always thirsty.” With a final wink, the tavern keeper shimmied through the crowd.

No sooner was Imelza gone when a familiar boy crossed in front of her. She gritted her teeth; it was the same smug youth, but he had no sway to his gait.

How curious.

The boy hopped onto a lit wooden platform Like moths to flame, the locals were drawn to the stage. The Northmen of Ojdra remained cloaked in the dark. In the fervor of the crowd, Yarrow made her way toward the banquet tables. The cooks had outdone themselves. Steam wafted from food abandoned for the night’s entertainment. There were thick swirled pastries and crumbled apple pie. Her mouth watered. In the fervor of her days’ work she hadn’t eaten since the morning. She snatched up a piece of fluffy strawberry cake. It would be a long walk to the Ferrier’s.

She settled at the base of a yew tree on a lone rise of ground. The cake was one of the highlights of Sol Tine. She eyed the tall stien in her hand and sipped. Her eyes widened. The cordial might well be another. She raised the mug in salute to Imelza.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we dedicate this performance to the glory of our Goddess Hela!” The actor's tenor voice soared. “Long May Her Light Reign.”

“Long May Her Light Reign!” The crowd cheered. Yarrow took another drink.

The youth flung his arms wide palms upturned to the night sky. His troupe clothed him in a gold shimmering robe and the mask of a woman’s features. Now the representation of Hela, he twisted his wrists to the deep tone of the timbre.

Another figure emerged on the stage. Esmer. Hela’s twin. The actor wore robes of black and sliced the air with a replica of an iron sword. Yarrow felt her blood chill as both God and Goddess purged the world of Spellcasters. Her breath caught as The Twin Gods leaned down to give their priests blood-red robes. The story always ended the same. The Twins triumphant. Victorious. Yarrow set her drink aside. It no longer tasted sweet.

“Brutal isn’t it?”

Yarrow started; she had been so engrossed in the performance that she hadn’t noticed the scuff of boots against the damp ground. A Northman with light fur over his shoulder and a sword at his belt leaned against the tree. She didn’t dare look him in the eye.

“It is.” she whispered. At the stretched silence. Yarrow dusted herself off. Being alone with a Northman, even near a crowd, was dangerous. She stepped away from the tree. He called after her. “You are a healer?” she looked over her shoulder, nodded.

“ My companions will need your skill during our stay.” She opened her mouth to protest but he pulled a fat silver coin from his doublet. The head of a fox adorned its face.“A starting sum for your trouble and discretion.”

Yarrow weighed the coin and slipped it into the basket. The single coin would cover a month's supplies at the apothecary. her eyes narrowed. “Where are your men stationed?”

“I will send for you.”

It wasn’t long before she slipped away from the celebration and arrived at The Ferriers. The thick scent of horses and fresh straw would have bothered most, but she found home was not so much a place as a feeling. Her lodging was small. The ramshackle room above the stables was large enough to fit a straw pallet, a folded pile of wool dresses, and some healing supplies.

As usual, she heard her landlord at his work with a hammer and a rasp. Jurgen would know where to trade the silver coin. She paused at the door frame. A crackling, raspy voice leached from one of the stalls.

He was not alone.

“Did you spy the flags hanging in the square?” she heard a large drop of spittle hit the ground. “They say the rat-bastard has the eyes of a fox and was born of the North Wind itself!”

“Aye it’s a shame his father passed so soon.”

Yarrow was many things but she was not one to linger at doorways listening in to other people’s business. She cleared her throat. The weasel of an old man jumped. As she suspected it was Old Hoben, a lecherous peddler with only a horse cart to his name. Jurgen was trimming the hoof of a spotted gelding.

“‘All you women, with your tonics and potions, it will be the fire and tongs for you if the young magistrate gets his way.”

Jurgen sighed, combing a hand through his cropped hair.

“Men from Ojdra bodes ill for all of Belgrav not just our women, the tax climbs higher every year.” Jurgen set down the horses hoof. “However Albrec Magda was a noble man, despite marrying an Ojdran.” he said. “His son is sure to have been brought up in The Light.” Hoben sniffed.

Yarrow grimaced as Jurgen drove the last nail through the iron shoe. Jurgen shook the hammer at Hoben. “Treat them well and the shoes will last through the summer, if you need a spare I will be here.” Yarrow untied the rope from the stall passed it to Hoben. He sneered at her hesitating to take the rope. Jurgen escorted him out the door. “Off with you before my head splits in two.” with a last glare. Hoben lit a tallow candlestick and walked into the night.

Jurgen sighed, tossing his hammer into a pail.

“What potions do you have for me today witch?” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Yarrow shrugged her shoulders.“ Nothing at all if you are going to be pigheaded.” She grabbed a dusty stool from the straw floor. “Sit down.” she snapped.

“Not joining the festivities?”

“Done for the night.” She leaned on the stall door, patting one of the mares on the nose. “Each year it seems the broken limbs grow in number. I am grateful that I foraged enough stock to heal the lot of you. If it had been any later in the season, I would have had to dig in muck…”

Jurgen rubbed between his eyes. “Goddess, what did I do to deserve this curse?” She narrowed her eyes. “Head pains are not incurable.” He threw up his hands. “I meant listening to you prattle on.” She smacked the back of his head. He swore in pain. “How Mathilde puts up with you is beyond me.”

Yarrow gave her most winning smile. “Your wife puts up with me because she is a better person than both of us, and we don’t deserve her goodness.” His deep glare softened, and he smoothed his beard. “Now that we can agree on.”

She rifled through jars of remedies and pulled out a small red bottle of paste. “It’s the usual mixture of red radish, bishop-wort, garlic—” she glanced at his pale face. “Here, place it on your forehead and that will dull the ache.” She hustled him over the threshold. “No more work for the rest of the night.” He gave her a pointed look. “The same could be said of you.”

Yarrow untied the scarf from her head. She shook out her shaggy red-gold strands of hair. “Is Mathilde gone?”

“Aye, there was a birth a fortnight ago. She is hoping the next family will have happy news to share.”

“Yes, the village could use a token of good fortune.” She turned to walk up the steps; perhaps it was best for her to keep the coin to herself. She doubted Jurgen would approve of its origins. He was already dipping his fingers into the paste and smearing the concoction across his brow.

“Yarrow, Hoben may be a fool, but he is right. Erich Magda is not his father. Ojdrans do not see the world as we do. They hide from the Light of the Goddess and rot in their fortresses of stone.”

“They don’t take to the old ways… like you.”

Yarrow did her best not to bite her tongue. “I will be alright.” She traced the edges of the healer's mark. The wooden token was a credential earned after years of instruction within the convent. On one side was the burned stamp of a priest's signet ring.

“Your concern is not unfounded; the persecution of spellcasters grows by the hour.” She twisted her headscarf in her hands. “But I have the people on my side,” she said.

“If the time ever comes when I am in danger, they will defend me. As I have defended them.” Jurgen took a deep breath. “I hope you are right.”