Padric had only seen husks once in his life. Four of them helped construct the fort near his village when he was just a boy, adding stone fortifications to the existing wooden stockade. For years after, when he passed one of the scarecrows in the fields he would stop and wait for a while, watching to see if it might come alive. Rosheen explained to him that the Magic used to give the husks life was old and nearly forgotten and would not quicken on common scarecrows. Padric was disappointed but not surprised. The farmers hung rush bundles on poles, poorly formed and bloated looking, all but shapeless, giving only the vaguest impression of arms and legs. Sometimes they would paint an ugly face on a feed sack to serve as a head, but most did not bother.

By contrast, the husks laboring at the fort were tall and gangly, deft, nimble and precise in every movement. Their stuffed bodies were not overly strong, but his father told him they were exceedingly clever and understood how to raise the fort up solid and level. Padric remembered they took no refreshment when the men of the village rested, but sat talking and even laughing amongst themselves. He wanted to approach and talk with them, but was too afraid they would shun him or cast cruel japes in his face as the villagers often did. Even if they were kind, which he suspected from the jovial expressions on their pumpkin faces, Padric feared he would only invite more suspicion from the men by speaking with them. Husks were not Fae, but were created with their Magic and could be trusted only so far. When the fort was completed, the man who owned the husks was paid with goats and pigs and wool. The husks were given nothing and left with the man, carrying the wool and herding the stock. Padric had not thought of them in years.

“The gnome would not allow Brogan to be buried until today,” Fafnir continued. “So the people have gone to the barrows. I was not asked to attend. There is a decent forge here, so I have worked steel, passing the days trading and teaching when the men are around, hoping the fomori will mend or that I will be permitted to see him.”

“Why not leave the damn sword in someone’s keeping and move on?” Rosheen asked.

Fafnir loosed a smoky chuckle. “This is what the gnome would have me do, but I see my goods delivered to their owners and none else.”

“Probably hasn’t been paid yet,” Rosheen muttered to Padric’s chagrin, but if Fafnir heard he gave no sign.

“I hoped to enter into your service,” Padric said, trying to keep any nervousness from his voice.