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The Debt-Collector, Part 2

First thing next morning Hyla took the letter to Fiorn. He put on a pair of delicate half-moon spectacles and read through it thoroughly.

‘Something about this is definitely off,’ he said. ‘The name - Draeborn Skile - that rings a bell.’ He handed the letter back to Hyla and immediately set about gathering items from about the house. He filled a pack with rations wrapped in cheesecloth, a small box of sealed letter, and a sack of coins. A coil of rope was strapped to the outside, and a rolled up tent was belted to the top. In short order Fiorn was wearing an old and slightly mouldering set of armour - metal plates sewn into cloth pockets, over stiff animal hide. Most importantly, he took up the weathered but still-shining sword in its red leather scabbard. Until this point it had been stuck into the umbrella stand, and was occasionaly brought out for storytelling theatrics. Strapped to his waist, it suddenly took on an aura of certainty and menace. No longer was it a prop for a tall tale; now it was a weapon for causing grievous injury.

‘What are you doing?’ Hyla asked, distress edging her voice. She took in the look - the weapon, the armour, the pack - and all thoughts fled. ‘I’m going with you, right?’

‘You can’t, Hyla,’ Fiorn sighed. ‘You need to stay here, so I have something to come back to. So your parents have something to come back to!’

‘I don’t understand,’ Hyla murmured. She felt her world crumbling beneath her. This final thread to her parents - the man who had steadfastly looked after her was vanishing into an unknown future, taking with him all memory of her parents from their time as heroes. Fiorn leaned down and took her by the shoulders.

‘I promise you this,’ he reassured her, ‘I will return. I keep hope in my heart that I will bring your parents back also; until then, you need to keep the house, their possessions - their music - safe! Hyla, you must stay, if only to fend off the vultures that have been sent for your home.’

And Hyla could only nod, tears in her eyes, as Fiorn opened the door and marched into the rising sun. And then she was alone.

-

For the next week Hyla sat on her porch, strumming the songs her parents had taught her with her axe always in reach. The debt-collector visited her each day, always pressing the urgency of the need for the money. And every day Hyla would say the same thing.

‘Thank you, Mr Huntington, but my own enquiries are ongoing. You will need to wait until I have received word from my own parties.’

‘And when will that be?’ Huntington asked at the end of the week.

‘Before Summer’s end,’ replied Hyla. ‘If you are lucky.’

‘You are running out of time, Ms Silkstring,’ Huntington warned. ‘I am authorised to take measures to ensure a return on Mr Skile’s investment.’

‘I have until Summer’s end,’ Hyla stated. ‘And I intend to wait until I have all of the facts. I will see you at Summer’s end, Mr Huntington.’

‘You know where to find me,’ said Mr Huntington. The phrase had a finality to it, on his lips.

‘And I’ll be right here,’ Hyla responded. She stared steadily at his retreating form as he returned to the tavern.

During the days when Huntington was not prowling around her stoop, Hyla was trying to live her life as normally as possible. She frequented the tavern, often in full view of Huntington; she visited her grandparents, who chided her for missing so many lessons on scripture and challenged her to name the spirits of the forest and rivers; and each day she could, she visited the forge to bring Freyl some food, which she left on a covered plate balanced on the windowsill.

‘Please come out Freyl!’ she said, every time. ‘I promise you the debt-collector means you no harm; and I would be grateful for the company of someone who knows me...’

‘Pardon me, Miss Silkstring,’ Freyl would reply, ‘but that man is a demon and I’m not coming out for nothing, including your kind company. I’m not leaving the safety of my forge until that repo man is out of town.’

Despite trying to be as normal as possible, to live the life she enjoyed in Midlarch, she felt the eve of summertime drawing ever closer like a dark shadow. She spent more and more time in the woods, chopping trees and lifting logs. Eventually, she knew, summer would be over, and she did not like to think of what may happen then.

-

It was Drever who forewarned her. More and more people had been stopping by the tavern, burly types with weapons, and Huntington had been speaking to some of them, or even paying them.

‘You think he’ll take my parents’ property by force?’ Hyla asked.

‘I don’t rightly know miss,’ Drever said. ‘But I know he’s likely to threaten it. And, forgive me for saying so, but your parents and Fiorn aren’t about here right now, so there’ll be precious few who’ll be willing to protect you from them.’

Hyla sat and thought about it for a time. She took up the axe and examined its edge.

‘I’ll be fighting,’ she said, mostly to herself. ‘I have to fight for what I love. And if the letter is to be believed, this is all I have left of my parents.’

When Drever heard this, he took himself off to Freyl’s forge, where he at least coaxed him close enough to the door to listen.

‘I know you’re nervous, lad,’ he said. ‘I know you think this man’s a demon - he’s been in my tavern every night for nearly a month, I can see why! And... well let’s not beat about the bush, I know you’re dumber than a box of rocks. But Hyla’s determined to stand and fight for her place, and it’ll do her good to have someone else there to boost her up, even if you’ve got no stomach for a fight yourself.’

There was silence for a long time. Then, the door was unbolted and Freyl exited, armed with a hammer and carrying a sack over his back.

‘I may have been a coward this whole time,’ he announced, ‘but by the spirits I’ve not been idle! We’re going to have a chat with the farmers tonight and rally them to the cause!’

‘That’s as may be, lad,’ Drever said, ‘but I’ll be in the pub and likely they will be too. With the debt-collector,’ he continued, at Freyl’s blank look. ‘And his cronies.’

The cloud of misunderstanding passed and was replaced with the moonlight of grey terror. Drever put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Summer’s end is tomorrow night, lad,’ he said. ‘How about you go see them in the morning?’

-

Hyla spent the majority of the next day cleaning. She scrubbed the counters, dusted down the instruments and cleared the cobwebs. She spent an hour on her knees clearing the mould from the grout on the tiles. When the house gleamed she sighed, staring at a picture of her parents.

‘I’m sorry, Ma and Pa,’ she said, ‘but I’m not cut out for the life of the housewife.’

She still had some afternoon sun, so she sat on her porch with a mandolin and picked out a few lilting tunes. After an hour Huntington arrived, leaning against the gate. He took off his glasses to clean them on his tunic - revealing a set of yellow eyes with slitted pupils - and replaced them as he looked around imperiously.

‘Nice day for it,’ he said. Hyla noted that he did not specify what “it” was. Though she had a pretty good idea.

‘I’ve been around the area’ she said. ‘There’s villages not far away with heroes of their own, songs they sing that no one’ll take outside those few short roads. I’ve collected a few of them, and I aim to collect more.’

‘Do you think you’ll have time?’ Huntington asked. Hyla shrugged.

‘I’ve had until Summer’s end for this,’ she said. ‘I trust I’ll have a little more time.’

‘Yes, well-’ Huntington moved to open the gate.

‘I read through that letter again,’ Hyla interrupted. ‘All those threats, those words. And I note that there was no mention of what organisation you belonged to that had the authority to collect these debts.’

‘It’s more of-’ Huntington began, but Hyla stood abruptly, her mandolin dangling in one hand. She picked up the axe from its stump, looking at it critically.

‘Fourteen hundred silver coins,’ she said. ‘That’s a lot to borrow from some Draeborne Skile. And I wonder, if you totted up everything in this house, and the house itself, and the land, if you’d even get half that. It’s good farmland, I grant you - you should see our cows when we’ve got ‘em! - but fourteen hundred is the worth of a kingdom.’

‘What can I say? Your parents-’

‘I have a little put away,’ Hyla said. She pulled a sack out from behind the stump, setting the mandolin down in its place. Huntington watched it hungrily. ‘I was saving up to go on my own adventure. It’s not nearly enough, of course, but...’ she opened the sack, pulling out a handful of gold and letting it tinkle back into place. Huntington stepped forward.

Hyla flicked a coin his way. He caught it.

‘That’s my offer, debt-collector,’ she said. ‘If you want to fight for the other thirteen hundred ninety-nine, you can meet my axe.’

Huntington looked at the coin, distaste rankling his features. He dropped it on the ground.

‘You have two hours, Ms Silkstring,’ he announced. ‘I will return then and take measures to collect my client’s money.’

Hyla watched Huntington retreat and returned to her mandolin. She pulled aside a board from the porch and slipped the bag of money into the gap. At least, she reasoned, they’d have to pull the place apart board-by-board to get everything they wanted.

-

The night couldn’t come quick enough. Hyla waited outside, axe in hand, watching the dimly-lit path for signs of the debt-collectors. The wind whisked stalks of long grass into a dance, whispering grave warnings through the night.

A lantern signalled someone’s march towards the house, and Hyla felt her breath catching. She hadn’t realised how scared she would be at this moment. The gate opened and her grip on the axe tightened. The swinging lantern approached ever closer...

And the shadows behind resolved themselves into the soft face of Freyl. He smiled warmly.

‘Evening, Miss Silkstring,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve come to take you to the tavern.’

Hyla started, struggling to find the words. She looked around, gesturing at... all of it.

‘I can’t, Freyl,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve got to protect my parents’ house.’

‘Oh, don’t worry miss!’ Freyl cried. ‘We’ve taken care of it.’ Hyla blanched.

‘Taken... care of...?’ At last she allowed herself to be led away from the porch and into the night, where Freyl spent the short walk to Drever’s tavern explaining as much as he could.

‘I went to talk to some of the farm hands this morning, miss, and they were all in agreement that they ought to lend their strength to your defence. And Drever told me to have them all meet up outside the tavern, so I did that and we all were armed-’

‘Sorry, armed with what?’ Hyla asked. She was struggling to follow along.

‘Armed with axes miss. I’d used some of the old ploughshares and broken pans people’d brought me, turned them into axes with blades like yours. It seemed... symbolic, miss.’

‘I... see. And outside the tavern?’

What had transpired outside the tavern was that some two-dozen strong-backed farm hands, each armed with an identical axe (because Freyl might’ve been slow, but he did excellent work with metal), entered the bar as Huntington and his men laid out their weapons on the bar top. And as the men turned to face the fine folk of the village, Drever had stealthily taken each blade, club and bow, and stowed them beneath the bar. And so, between these debt-collectors and the door was a wall of heavily-armed people holding fresh weapons they knew how to use, and they were facing a much smaller group of now mostly-unarmed men.

They were still there when Hyla arrived. Freyl announced her to raucous cheers, and she stood in the doorway, frozen with an overabundance of emotion. Finally, she stepped over the threshold and met with a solid half of the lads in the employ of the local farmers, who slapped her on the back and roped her into hugs and all clamoured to be the one to buy her a drink.

‘First one’s on the house!’ Drever cried as she shoved her way to the bar. ‘It’s a crowded night, and I’ve a hunch this story will be told for many a year to come!’

‘I’m glad it all worked out,’ Hyla said. ‘Thank you for the warning Drever, and for helping with this. Where is Huntington at this time?’

Drever pointed to a corner, where a table was taken up with half a dozen scarred and surly men in the same oilcloth coats. Huntington painted a stark contrast, thin and pale in the middle of them.

‘Well, you tried,’ Hyla said, taking a seat opposite him. Every member of the group was suddenly facing her, but a chorus of jeers and yells from behind her backed her up and caused them to shrink back.

‘They still have their axes,’ Huntington said. ‘Meanwhile we must go unarmed. Is that fair?’

‘Perfectly, for those who threaten violence,’ Hyla responded. ‘I came here to make you a deal - my offer still stands, Mr Huntington.’ She took a silver coin and slid it across the table.

It happened in an instant. Huntington, in his rage, tipped the table aside, and then there was a knife in his hand and he was thrusting down with all his weight at Hyla’s chest. She pushed up and they met in the middle, the handle of her axe barring his arms.

‘I ought to kill you, you insolent little-’ he started, but Hyla twisted and the axe twisted with her. It was barely a sound - a sharp tick! in the atmosphere as Huntington’s glasses were knocked free - but Hyla felt the pressure release. Huntington was on his knees beside her, clutching at his face. As she got to her feet, she could see the blood - cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, but they were still cut as easily as any other flesh.

Huntington glowered at her with those reptilian eyes.

He leapt for her again, but this time a press of bodies threw him back. His arm was wrenched back and broken, and the knife driven from it, and in a moment twenty-four farm hands had thrown him out into the street.

The crowd parted, and Hyla stood over him.

‘Summer’s end is past,’ she said. ‘I suggest you and your men go home. You’re not getting your money.’

‘It was never theirs to take!’

Everyone looked up. Striding up the path was Fiorn Oakmane, flanked by Inez and Salamane Silkstring. Fiorn carried a sack in one hand.

‘Forgive me, Hyla,’ Fiorn boomed, ‘but I needed to check that your parents were okay. It was all a ruse! Draeborne Skile was a cultist from back in the day, when he heard your parents were back in Versicale and sent some agents to try and rough you up. He was hoping to kill your parents, but they’re Timberhearts!’

‘Drae... Draeborne Skile is disgraced since you stole that money from him!’

‘Not stole,’ Salamane retorted evenly. ‘He was a cultist and we took the loot from his temple of blood. He was killing people, we stopped him.’

‘And we took our just reward,’ Inez finished. ‘You have no place here, cultist. Or debt-collector, whatever you wish to call yourself. Leave.’

‘I still have men here!’ Huntington hissed. And it was a hiss - guttural, reptilian. Something strange about that one, Hyla thought.

‘Yeah? Here’s an incentive for you all to leave!’ Fiorn cried. He tossed the sack to Huntington, who caught it. He opened it up, and a strangled cry escaped his lips. As his men watched from the window, he scrabbled to his feet and sprinted down the lane as fast as he could, bag in hand.

Fiorn looked through the window at the men who remained. As one, they shoved their way through the throng and followed their master dutifully. As they left, Hyla ran and embraced her parents.

‘I thought you were dead! For months I worried!’ she cried, tears stinging her eyes. She sobbed into her mother’s shoulder as she and her father encircled her.

‘So Mr Oakmane, sir,’ said Freyl, appearing at his elbow. ‘What was in that bag that scared them so?’

‘Draeborne Skile’s head,’ Fiorn replied. Freyl blanched. Hyla, hearing this, stared at him in shock.

‘You killed this... Skile?’ she asked, wishing she had misheard. Fiorn nodded solemnly.

‘We all went to him,’ Salamane said, ‘when Fiorn told us what he had done. He admitted it, so we took his life, hoping to end this without bloodshed. But I see the village was a step ahead of us.’

‘Yeah!’ Freyl cried. ‘You’re a real hero now, Hyla! You showed them up!’

-

Weeks later Hyla would be sitting with Fiorn on his porch, still mulling over those words.

‘I still don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘I’m no hero, though everyone treats me as one. I was scared, but I was still fully prepared to fight those debt-collectors. I would’ve killed to protect my home; does that make me a hero?’

‘It’s time I told you the truth about the Timberhearts,’ Fiorn said with a sigh. ‘In all honesty, very little was down to us. We fought bandits in the hills and cultists in their temples, but before that we were in the towns and villages, turning the tide by showing the people what these villains really were. Freyl saw it immediately and got to work, but I doubt he would’ve done if it hadn’t been you who was in trouble. Even for himself.

‘This is the truth of the Timberhearts - of heroes all. Our work is not just to protect what we love, but to show everyone else how to protect what they love too. To inspire action, to motivate change... and to be the kindness that we wish to engender in strangers. You’ve been kind to Midlarch, and they fought for you in return. If you want to be a Timberheart, understand that you will need to do the same for people who have never heard of you - who may even hate you for what you represent. The tales, the daring deeds - they’re what people remember, but they don’t hear about the people who died helping us. Who helped us because they knew they could make a difference, and gave truly their all to do so.’

‘And that’s what it takes to be a Timberheart?’ Hyla asked. ‘The courage to die? The courage to be hated, and reviled, and to be kind despite it all? That sounds...’

Hyla laughed through the tears as Fiorn put an arm around her and put her close.

‘You got it,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘That sounds almost tragic,’ Hyla finished, and she smiled.

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