Lyra Fernbrook's Arc

Chapter 16 of 18

Lyra woke to a gray dawn and the last step waiting. The book had said the offering needed witnesses, more than the tavern hearth had held. She pulled on her cloak and set out alone. Dorian had gone up to the ridge before sunrise to finish the small iron token they would carry to the grove at dusk. Her job was the crowd. She had a list of homes in her satchel and the whole day to walk it. She went door to door along the paths that fed the tavern road. She asked the weaver, the baker, the old fletcher with the bent hand. She asked the families with children and the widow who kept bees. Most said yes. A few said they would come if their neighbors did. By midday her list was almost full. One name was left at the bottom, past the last fence, where the path narrowed into scrub. She had never met the man there. She almost skipped him. She did not. The house sat low in a hollow, stone piled thick, thatch black with mold. Tusks hung nailed on either side of the door. Chains hung from the eaves and moved without wind. She knocked once. The door swung open and she took a step back. The man inside filled the frame. He was an ogre in leather and iron, hair matted to his shoulders, eyes gold and flat. She said her name and the reason she had come. He stared. Then he smiled, and it was wrong. She turned to run. His hand caught her cloak and pulled her off her feet. He dragged her back and threw her against the stones. She got her staff up. He knocked it aside and drove a knife across her arm, then her side. She felt the second cut go deep. She screamed. It tore out of her before she could shape it, high and long, and it carried up the hollow and over the scrub toward the ridge. He raised the knife again. Boots hit the path at a run. Dorian came through the gate with his hammer in one hand and a forge blade in the other. He did not slow. He hit the ogre at the shoulder and drove him off her. The fight was short and loud. Dorian took a blow across the ribs and gave back three. The last one went through the throat. The ogre fell against his own doorframe and did not get up. Dorian dropped the blade and crossed to her on his knees. He pressed his hand to her side and his palm filled red at once. He said her name over and over. He tore his shirt and bound the wound and lifted her against his chest. He was crying. He carried her down the path at a run, toward the herbal house at the grove's edge, and the crowd she had gathered began to come out of their doors to watch them pass.