The Hearth Keeper's War

Spine Dogs

The clanging of the city bell woke Sparrow so abruptly that she sat bolt upright and struck her head on the slanted ceiling. She hissed and rubbed the spot as she simultaneously threw herself free of her warm woolen blankets. The less she thought about the cool spring pre-dawn the better. Just get up and get out.

Her little sister, Lark, with whom she shared a bed, grumbled and stirred, rolling over so her narrowed eyes were just visible in the dusky darkness of their little room. "That the bell?"

"Yep." Sparrow bounced around, pulling on one boot while trying to locate the other.

"Think it's something dangerous?" Lark mumbled disinterestedly.

"Maybe." Sparrow's heart leaped at the idea that a challenge might await her. Something more exciting than a few stray dogs to shoo away from the chickens. Some folk would ring the bell for any old thing. She bounced the other way and landed on her second boot.

"Why don't you sit down?" Lark rubbed her sleep-crusted eyes, blinking owlishly from her warm nest of blankets.

"Because...no time!" Sparrow finally pulled her boot on, glad that she always slept in loose trousers and shirt so there was no need for more awkward clothing dances. She grabbed at her hair, which was a wild tangle of curls as thick as the mulberry bush at the back of the house. All she could do was tame it with a leather cord, knowing full well how unmanageable it would be later.

She heard Lark giggle and looked over just in time to see her sister curl back under her covers.

For the flash of a moment Sparrow was jealous. She was about to charge into a dewy early morning, possibly to chase a shadow that alewife Smithe was certain she spotted in her garden. She could be snug and warm, dreaming of army camps and hard earned medals.

This is a step towards that goal. She grabbed her sword, sheath and belt all attacked as one so she could easily strap it on. Then it was out into the hall, trying not to wake the rest of the family as she made her way down the narrow stairs. Skilled as she was at leaving in the wee hours, the steps still squeaked and wailed like she was stepping on little animals. She gritted her teeth. The family had learned to ignore the bell that was her task master, but her father had an uncanny ear for a creaky step.

"Quiet down out there!" His voice cracked like a lash from behind his door.

Right on cue.

She paused at the big, well-worn table on her way through their simple home. There were a few remnants of a hastily cleared dinner still on the scarred surface. She grabbed a few hunks of abandoned bread and flicked a rag off a bowl of soft cheese to help herself to a scoop. Her mother would fuss over it, but Sparrow had an important job for the village, so Mother usually forgave her.

She headed for the door, stepping over her baby brother's wooden horse toy, the one he could pull along with a stub of rope. Little Hawk already loved horses. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he'd been chosen by the right god.

Me on the other hand.

She shook the thought from her mind as soon as it landed and reached above the door for her bow and quiver of arrows. An easy task as she was the second tallest person in her family, only half an inch shorter than her father.

Finally kitted out, she stepped into the early spring dawn. There was barely a sliver of palest pink on the horizon and her breath ghosted out from instantly chilled lips. She should have grabbed her cloak, but she was out the door now.

The town was still, aside from the watch-bell clanging at the southwest corner. The Dale farm. Gods, it might be an actual danger! Probably a person's heart shouldn't leap with excitement at the thought that their homey little village might be under attack. She turned away from the sun's first rays and squinted down a dark lane of close, tidy, thatch roofed homes. Her own home was one of the only ones in this part of town that had two stories, which was something her father still bragged about at the pub given the chance. Most people knew not to get him started.