SOL THREE
By
J. N. Wdowski
Chapter One
His horse would not move any further. No matter how hard Dale tried to spur his mount to move forward, the animal refused to budge. “What is it girl? What are you afraid of?” Dale looked at the path that led into the Newangle Woods. “We have traveled through these woods a dozen times. What is spooking you?”
It was then he heard a loud screeching bellow. His mare terrified rose up onto her hind legs, unbalancing Dale and dismounting him. He fell on his peekoo hard. The mare then turned away from the woods and bolted in the opposite direction, back to the Neethton city that they had just come from. “At least I didn’t fall on my head this time.” Rubbing his peekoo he got on his feet. He drew his saber from its scabbard; regretting that he hung his shield on the fleeing horse, instead of on his back as Greendale had always instructed him to do.
More screeches came from the forest; they were more than one and humanoid, not animals. Dale looked at the foliage on the trees; they were just beginning to change color. “It’s still early autumn; they shouldn’t be waking for months.” He began to back away from the darkening shadows of the trees. He tried to whistle his horse to return, but his mouth was too dry and of course his canteen was also hanging on his mount. “This is not my day.”
One Week Earlier
Dale was alone as he sat against the "couple’s" old oak tree. The tree was covered with the initials of hundreds of different lovers. For over two centuries, the town myth was that if a couple carved their initials into the old oak, their love would grow as the tree did. Steady and stronger each year. Dale had his initials on the tree with Christine “D & C,” but their love did not last long. Christine left Dale for the town butcher. “Marrying a butcher I’ll never be without meat” was her reasoning. Christine and the butcher’s initials were also on the tree. The butcher was kind enough to cross out Dale and Christine's initials before he carved "C & M" into the trunk.
Dale wished he had carved his and Christine's initials higher up on the tree. With any luck when the butcher crossed out their initials he would have fallen and landed on his knife. Dale smiled with the thought.
He noticed Pete climbing up the green hill towards him.
“Why do you come up here?” Pete caught his breath as he stood over Dale. “She left you three years ago.”
Dale looked up at Pete; he put his hand over his eyes to block the sun behind Pete. “I like the view.” He looked back down at the small town of stone and wooden buildings surrounded by farmland and orchards.
“You just come up here to wallow in losing her.”
Dale turned and looked up at their crossed out initials on the tree. “Just proves you shouldn't believe in myths and fairytales.”
“Greendale is looking for you, says he has a job for you.” Pete shook his head, not understanding what Greendale saw in Dale.
Dale stood, brushing off his peekoo as he did. He buckled his saber back on. “What’s the problem?”
Pete, ten years younger than Dale, was only eighteen years old, “I have no idea. When does Greendale tell me anything? I do not understand why he always relies on you.”
Dale patted Pete on the top of his head “When you get full frontal brain development you will understand. Should be in another five years, not too long a wait.”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” Pete pointed at Dale’s weapon, “I am just as good with that as you are.”
Dale headed down the hill with Pete close behind him. “There is more to things than just knowing how to wield a sword.”
Greendale sat at his desk in the town's constable office, the one jail cell behind him was empty. Chopson was sitting on the opposite side of the desk when Dale came in with Pete still tagging along. “Pete, I only asked to see Dale.” Greendale dismissed the teenager.
Pete wanted to protest, but knew it was pointless to do so. He turned around and left, closing the door behind him.
“That serious?” Dale responded standing and looking over the two men sitting before him.
Greendale, a man in his late fifties stroked his tightly trimmed beard, “Not serious enough, for Pete to start spreading an unwarranted panic.”
“So, not serious?” Dale looked for someplace to sit, but not finding another chair, he stood.
Chopson's powerful arms signified his years of cutting down trees for the local mill, asked Greendale, “Do you need me anymore?”
“No, were good.” Greendale turned to the man, “Just keep me up to date if you find any more signs.”
“I will.” Chopson stood a half head taller than Dale, he politely smiled at both men and left the building.
“More signs?” Dale took the seat Chopson had vacated.
Greendale did not respond immediately, instead he took a sip of the local “tea.” His narrow eyes peered at Dale over his cup. If Dale did not know Greendale better, he would think his frowned brow meant he had done something wrong. “He found zackery tracks in the west woods across the river.”
“Zackery tracks? Is he sure?” Dale knew that zackeries were much more common in the ruins of the old cities. "They don’t venture out of those thousand year old tombs."
“Chopson, is not a novice. He knows those woods like the back of his hand.” Greendale replied. “You want some tea?”
“I am good, thanks. The nearest ruins are at least four days away. They’re looking for food? Have they finally picked their feeding grounds clean?”
“Perhaps.” Greendale responded calmly, “or perhaps their numbers have grown so much, that they are finally spreading out. Or perhaps something is pushing them out.”
“Pushing them out?” Dale was getting worried. “What could push zacheries out of their hunting grounds?”
“As I said, ‘perhaps.’ I have no idea.” Greendale put his tin cup down on the table. “All I do know is the last thing we need is a pack of zacheries descending down on our life stock, or worse, them snatching up a child.” His forehead frowned even more so. “The Neethton’s might know. I will need you to go to their city and see what they know.”
“The Neethtons have nothing but contempt for humans. They won’t even give us the time of day.”
“True, but I think if you ask them nicely they may.”
“Me, why me? I am no one to them. A mere human.”
Greendale gave a half cocked smile. “You have your ways, Dale. I think you can get them to talk to us. You have a natural disarming charm that gets people to trust you.”
“People, perhaps. Neethtons are not people.”
