The block came hurtling out of the office to smash into the wall opposite Ian Blackthorn's barracks office. Several pages stared at it wide-eyed, knowing one of them should retrieve it and bring it back inside to the Captain. Finally, the law of the pack prevailed and the youngest of them was nudged over to pick the block up.

"I've got that."

The page froze in the act of reaching down. Ian sighed to himself as he drew closer; the boy had the look of a doe frozen at the sight of a wolf. "It's alright, Alun. I threw it, I'll pick it up." He did so, nodding to the other three pages who seemed intent on melting into the wall at their backs. "It's a warm day. Why don't you all go for a swim in the pond. Report back after dinner."

He watched as the four boys scrambled off down the stairs, the barracks door slamming behind them. "Wonderful, Ian. You can't catch this damn killer, but you manage to terrorize you pages." He scowled, nodded to the nearby guard and stalked back into his office. A toss landed the newest block on the desk next to the rest. Colin Daniels, younger brother to Jacob, another immigrant from Flaxley, had been found dead by his mother in their barn, his throat slit. Another family torn apart for no sane reason.

And no help forthcoming from Valorward.

Ian sank down into his chair, taking a deep breath as he sought to center his mind on the problem and banish the rage that threatened to overwhelm his thoughts. Anger would not help him find the killer any quicker.

But DAMN those O'Donnells!

He'd finally managed to get Lord Lerrad to come in and talk with him about these deaths. Not that it had been any help; Lerrad had said he had no idea who might be behind this, knew of no incidents like those Ian had asked about having taken place at Flaxley, and had then bolted out of here as fast as he politely could.

Lerrad had been lying, of course. Ian's instincts had been honed by years of watching the face and eyes of an opponent with a sword. Lerrad hadn't been able to look Ian in the eyes after denying any knowledge and his hasty departure only added to the certainty he'd been less than honest That had been yesterday afternoon, and then last night, Elspeth O'Donnell had arrived in the firehall. Ian rubbed his forehead; just the mere memory of the conversation made his anger flare again. The woman was impossible. Not that she'd told him anything useful, either. She'd nearly spilled her tea when Ian had told of Colin Daniel's death and mentioned the man had been yet another younger sibling. But like a she wolf guarding its young, Elspeth had defended Lerrad and repeated they had no idea what was behind all this.

Well, what else had he expected, really? When had the O'Donnells ever been completely honest with him?

He picked up the last block, the Colin Daniels block, turning it over and over in his hands.

The upshot of it was that Ian had finally done something that he was not particularly proud over doing. He'd threatened them. Elspeth asked him if he was trying to blame Lerrad for the deaths.

"No. But I would suggest, Lady O'Donnell, that you talk to your husband and persuade him to tell me what he knows before another person dies, before another Flaxley immigrant dies, or I will have no choice." He'd taken a sip of water before continuing. "I will simply let it be known among the Flaxley immigrants that Lord O'Donnell may know who is killing their loved ones and has said NOTHING!" He'd slammed the palm of his hand on the table and Elspeth had fairly hissed at him across the table.

"You evil man! You will sow suspicion and hostility among the people who depend on him!"

Ian sighed at the memory; Elspeth logic always left him bemused.

"I'm evil?" he'd asked. "I'm trying to stop a murderer. Your husband knows who it is, milady! And all he can think of doing is running home and gathering his family into the fortress. Meanwhile, people are dying! You know what I think? I think it's someone Lerrad knows well, maybe someone he's related to by blood."

"Related to? I believe you know all his living relatives. His father passed, leaving he and Tuckian. Wenndolyne is his only other living relative."

"Hm. I'd forgotten about that. Lady Wenn did spend time at Flaxley in her youth, didn't she? And unlike Lerrad, she's usually forthcoming. Perhaps I should question her."

The rest of the conversation had gone about the way most of his talks with Lady Elspeth did, but before she'd left, he'd planted, he hoped, a seed. "When you go home, milady, you look into his eyes and you ask him about what he knows. watch what he does. And then ask yourself this: can you live with yourself if another one like young Fionn dies?"

Today, Ian shook his head. There was no telling what went on in the head of an O'Donnell. They were not criminals, but sometimes he thought he'd go mad dealing with the pair of them. At any rate, Lady Wenndolyne had assented to speaking with him. Perhaps she had the key to this mess.

He fervently hoped she did, before another innocent died.

Blackthorn 06/2001


Field of Death: The Unexpected

The room is bright with sunlight shining in from the clean windows, shaded only by a tree set just beyond the wall and the airy curtains that draped carefully at each window. Monica works furiously at the kitchen table, cleaning and storing her herbs as she did quite often in these days of Spring and Summer.

Below, in the finished basement workshop that Tuckian put in for himself, she heard the sounds of the men working. Tuckian spoke to Ultan, an older man who had come to work with Tuck when he came from Flaxley. Ultan's talent for detailed woodworking had always been a point of admiration for Tuck, especially since he'd overcome his partial blindness to achieve what Tuck considered a master standing at his craft. Now, Tucker was able to work closely with this man he had admired as a youth.

Monica settles a stack of long-stemmed herbs onto a tray and smiles at them satisfied. There was something about the process she'd learned to dry these herbs that completed her in a way no other activity did. Besides the fact that the sale of these dried herbs helped with the expenses of the house.

"I'll bring them oth'r tools when I r'turn," Tuck's says over his shoulder as he steps through the door leading to the kitchen.

"How's Ultan doin'?" Monica asks as she sets her tray in the window.

"He'll be fine." Tuckian says with a shrug then shakes his head, "Them guards shook him up a whole lot, though. He nearly stayed at home by himself 'til I tol' him he'd be safer wi' us here anyway."

Monica turns back to the counter and starts ripping up some leaves in a bowl there. Her actions match her sharpened tone, "Tha' Blackthorn thinks he's th' lard o' the land." She waves her hands in the air, still holding some of the leafy vegetation, then goes back to ripping it even more vigorously now, "Th' nerve o' him goin' an' makin' folk think you was part o' all this nonsense."

Tuckian doesn't reply, but makes his way through to the next room in the modest house. After some sounds of digging, he calls out, "Whar's tha' box o' carvin' tools I got from th' market last month?"

"Look on th' top shelf!"

"I don't see it. No, wait, thar it is. Thanks, Love."

Monica smirks and speaks under her breath, "I do b'lieve he'd lose his head, if'n it weren't fer his neck stickin' it to his should'rs."

"What was that?" Tuckian's voice rings, much closer now and in fact in the same room as she.

Monica tilts her head and raises her eyes to the ceiling with a sweet smile, "Nothin', Love."

Tuckian walks back to toward the basement door, taking the longer router to pass his wife as she stands at the counter and brushes her backside. She giggles in return and leans back just enough as he passes to make his journey worthwhile.

"I best git back t' wark."

"Aye. Ya best." Monica smiles back over her shoulder at him as he walks away, "Oh and tell Ultan tha' he's welcome t' stay fer dinner. I'm makin' his fav'rite. Leeks and kidney stew."

"Aye, I will at tha'." Tuckian says as he opens the door to the basement and steps through with his toolbox in hand.

Within a moment, Monica hears a bumping from the basement. Her first thought is that Tuckian has taken a nasty fall down the stairs, but then she hears the voices raised in anger. Well, just one voice really.

She drops what she's doing and rushes to the door, throwing it open and calling out, "Tuck? What's goin' on down thar?"

Silence is her only reply.

"Tuck?"

She cranes her neck to look down past the stairway, but can only see the dusty floor at the base of the stairs and the back of a chair that had fallen over. She swallows as she steps once down the stairs, "Tucker. This ain't funny, lad." There is light in the silent room below. Tucker had installed a lantern for the evenings, but this light was no doubt coming from an open storm door that leads out to the back of the house. The white light creates darker shadows that cover the edges of the steps.

"Tuck! You answer me now, man! I ain't gonna play t'day!"

No reply.

She takes one step more down the stairway, the wooden beam beneath her foot creaking in the silence that surrounds her.

"Tuck?" she says weakly, her voice now more a whisper than anything, matching perfectly the stillness in the air.

A sound of something shuffling, a single noise in the quiet, makes her start. Then a groaning and, finally, a cough, "Mon"

Tuck's voice was the best thing she'd ever heard and she rushes down the stairs now to try to find him. Scanning her eyes over the small shop, she notes the overturned furniture and crates whose contents are now scattered about the floor.

One of the crates tumbles off another and Tuckian stands from the dusty pile rubbing the back of his head. With a blink, he looks at Monica just in time for her arms to be flung around him. She hugs him tightly then backs away a step and pushes his shoulder with a frown, "Why didn't ya answ'r me, man! Scared th' livin'..." She stops and backs away a step as she notices something over his shoulder. Her hand moves to her mouth and she stares with wide eyes across the room at the twisted figure crumpled beneath the work bench.

Without speaking, Tuckian turns and then turns back. Ultan, an old master woodworker and younger brother of Saoirse, lay slain on the floor with a slit cut to his throat and his chest covered in blood. There's a moment of silence between the two before Monica turns and runs out the open storm door, escaping into the sunlight. Looking around, she quickly dashes to a nearby bush and vomits.

Ernie 6/2001