A King's Bargain (Legend of Tal #1)

2: The Greatest Chicken Farmer

As Garin watched the man dart back and forth across the muddy yard, half-bent like a raccoon, trying over and over to snag one of the hens and failing, he couldn't say he'd ever seen a better chicken farmer.

"Come here, damn you!" the man cursed as he chased the chickens. As they scattered, he made a grab, missed, tried again, and nearly fell face-first into the mud.

"Try approaching slower," Garin said, a twitch to his lips. "Not that an old man like you could go anything but slow."

The would-be chicken herder straightened and stretched his back with a groan. "Tried that. Still don't have a chicken roasting on a spit." He eyed Garin. "Maybe if a certain lad helped me chase them, we might both be chewing on succulent meat before the hour's up."

Garin pretended not to notice as his gaze wandered up to the sky. "Best hurry about it. Looks set to rain at any moment."

The man sighed. "Maybe the mud will stop them. Yuldor's prick, but chickens are degenerate birds, aren't they? What kind of bird can't even fly?"

The farmer stalked after the hens, a hand pressed to his side. He often touched that spot, Garin had noticed, like one might pick at a scab that refused to heal.

Garin shook his head and looked off toward the main muddy road through the town. The chicken farmer, incompetent as he might be at his chosen profession, had been the most exciting thing to happen to Hunt's Hollow in the last five years. Little else changed in their village. The seasons came and went; rains fell, and fields dried up; youths coupled against their parents' wishes and established their own farms. Life was trapped in amber, the same cycle repeated for every man, woman, and child in the village. The only thing to change in the last five years was the lack of deaths, for though the Nightkin beasts that came down from the Fringes had still been sighted, none had stayed long enough to attack.

His eyes turned toward the western tree line. Garin had traveled to all the other villages in the East Marsh, taking every opportunity he could get, but found them all the same, and Hunt's Hollow the largest of them, with its own forge and sharing its mill with only one other town. The World, he knew, lay with the rest of the Westreach.

I'll see it all and make my name, he promised himself. Someday.

His unfocused eyes were drawn by a figure approaching down the road. As the man drew closer, it became apparent he wasn't from any of the surrounding towns, or even the East Marsh. No wagon or horse — can't be a peddler. A wandering tradesman? But where he kept the tools of his trade, Garin hadn't the faintest idea, for his pack was small and slight.

As he came closer still, he observed how oddly dressed the traveler was. His hat, made of stiff cloth that was worn and gray and notched on the rim, was pointed and bent at the top. The long braid of hair draped over the front of his shoulder was black as a winter night. His chin was completely smooth and so sharp Garin reckoned he could cut a wheel of cheese with it. His clothes, like his hat, were well-used, but despite the many patches, they spoke of quality not too far gone.

A man of means, Garin wagered. Always best to be polite to a man of means.

"Welcome, traveler!" he called cheerily as the man came within earshot. "Welcome to Hunt's Hollow!"

"I read the sign on the way in."

He sounded somewhat irritable. But then, Garin reasoned, he must have traveled a long way. Opening his mouth to respond, he found the words caught in his throat. The traveler's eyes were shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, but he could detect a shining quality to them. Like staring into a forge, Garin thought before he could banish the boyish notion.