They were in the camp that was their temporary headquarters. There were nine men, including the Stealer himself and the blue-cloaked Storyman. In addition, there were five children, with ages ranging from ten to fourteen, chained together underneath a large tree. The Stealer glanced at them now. They were huddled under the tree, where a torn piece of canvas was stretched over the branches to provide them with cover in the event of rain. The kidnappers themselves shared small two-man tents, except for the Stealer. As leader, he demanded a tent to himself. It was larger than the low-standing tents his followers slept in, and where they made do with sleeping blankets on the ground, he had a small folding camp bed.
The gang had been abducting children from small villages throughout Trelleth Fief for several months. They targeted small villages, remote from one another and with little or no communication between them. That way, by the time one village where a child had gone missing found out that there were others in the same fief where a similar thing had happened, the Stealer and his men would be long gone.
The system he’d devised worked admirably. The Storyman entered a village, gained the trust of the local children and targeted a child for kidnapping. He selected boys or girls who were mistreated by their parents. That way, when they disappeared, they were usually assumed to be runaways. Their parents might search for them, but there would be no organised hue and cry.
Once he’d engaged the children in a village and selected a target, the Storyman changed tack. His stories, at first amusing and entertaining, took on a darker, more sinister nature. He described the fearsome person known as the Stealer, a figure from the shadows, who stalked through the land seeking out children and stealing them away to his realm in the netherworld. He warned the children that if the Stealer should visit their village, they were to say nothing about him. They were never to discuss him with their parents, or any other adult.
If they did, the Stealer would know, and he would wreak terrible vengeance on them.
The Storyman was an accomplished raconteur. By the time he moved on from a village, the children were usually terrified out of their wits.
That way, when one of their number disappeared shortly after, they said nothing. It was a clever stratagem. In many cases, in poor villages like the ones they preyed on, several children would sleep in the same room. If by chance a child woke and saw the black-clad figure, the fear engendered by the Storyman would ensure that he or she remained mute. Mute and terrified. The children knew if they interfered, if they said anything about him or tried to raise the alarm, they would disappear along with their companion.
The Stealer’s gang had been operating this way for the past twelve months, moving from one fief to another, changing their area of operation frequently, so that no word of their activities ever reached the authorities.
Once they settled in a new area, they would begin abducting children. Then, when they had sufficient prisoners—usually ten or twelve—they would move on to the next phase of their operations.
The Stealer heard hoofbeats and looked up. One of his scouts had ridden into the camp. The man was dressed in a patched farmer’s smock and wore a shapeless felt hat. He would pass virtually unnoticed in any of the villages or hamlets the gang had passed through. He looked around, saw the Stealer sitting hunched at his table and strode across to him.
“We may have trouble brewing,” he said briefly. He sat down opposite his leader and turned to yell at the man who had served the Stealer. “Harold! Get me some ale here!”
Harold mumbled to himself. But he moved towards the cask and selected a mug from the table. There was a distinct ranking order in the gang and he was close to the bottom of it.
The Stealer frowned.
“Where?” he asked. The scout held up a hand for him to wait while Harold handed him a mug of ale, foam slopping over the brim. The scout didn’t seem to care. He upended it and drank thirstily, then slammed the mug down with a satisfied grunt.
“Esseldon,” he said, and belched. The Stealer frowned. They’d hit Esseldon recently. He glanced towards the group of prisoners under the tree, trying to pick out the one he’d abducted from that village. But after they’d been operating for a few weeks, the faces all blurred and he couldn’t be sure which one it was.
The fear that the Storyman struck into the hearts of the village children was usually enough to prevent any mention of the Stealer reaching the ears of their parents.
Usually.
But there was always the chance that a child, braver or more foolish than the others, might talk. If that happened, the villagers would be alerted to the presence of the Stealer in their area and might well mount a search for the missing child. And in that case, the gang would have to move on to a new fief to avoid discovery. To gain early warning of such an occurrence, the Stealer had his scouts make regular visits back to the villages where they’d already struck to make sure that their secret was still secure.
In Esseldon, apparently, someone had been talking.
“May be nothing,” the scout continued. “But there’s a young girl been asking questions.”
“One of the locals?” the Stealer asked.
The other man shook his head. “No. She’s travelling through with her da. He’s looking for work and they’ve been staying at the inn. But I heard her quizzing one of the local kids about the Storyman—and about the boy we took out of that village. She’s learned nothing so far, but I thought you ought to know.”
The Stealer massaged his jaw between the thumb and fingers of his right hand. There was always the chance that one child might talk. And now, it seemed, his extra precautions in sending the scout back to check things in Esseldon had proved worthwhile.
“I think we’d better let this girl know what happens to people who ask awkward questions,” he said thoughtfully. Then he turned and shouted towards the group of men sitting on the grass around the camp fire.
“Benito! Come here. I’ve got a job for you!”
Yes, he thought, Benito was the one to send. He’d been injured in a fight some years before, struck by a blow to the throat that left his voice little more than a harsh whisper. Benito was bitter and angry about the injury and he was usually only too glad to undertake the task of frightening any child who disobeyed the Storyman’s instructions.
He walked to the table now, touching one knuckle to his forehead in a sign of respect for the gang leader.
“What is it, Jefe?” he asked, using the Iberian term for boss or chief. Benito’s Iberian accent overlaid the harsh whisper of his voice. The combination was usually enough to frighten any child.
“There’s a girl in Esseldon asking questions. Robert here can tell you what she looks like and where to find her,” the Stealer told him, indicating the scout. “Go in there tonight and frighten her off. Or kill her,” he added carelessly.
A cruel smile stole over Benito’s swarthy features.
“That will be my pleasure, Jefe.”
Thirty-seven
Early in the afternoon, long before the shadows began to lengthen, Maddie slipped away from the village and walked out to the spot where Bumper was waiting. Will had taken Tug, of course, so her black and white horse was alone in the small clearing a little way off the road. She had worried about this, but Bumper seemed quite content with his own company.
She brushed him down and fed him two apples. A small stream ran near the clearing and she took the water bucket and filled it for him. Of course he could have drunk from the stream, but it was visible from the road and there was a chance that he might be seen by any casual passers-by.