Legend to Farmer 2: A Slice of Life Fantasy by Dante King

Author:Dante King [King, Dante]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Valdis and Sally found Brother Thistle, along with some of his acolytes in a shady glade. The glade backed on to a babbling brook; a stream with a wide, pebbly shoal that acted as a beach more or less. It was a pleasant spot, and now that the sun was shining, Valdis couldn’t blame the dozen or so men and women scattered around for lying back on the grass and just staring up at the sky and clouds.

“Da says that they’re so lazy molasses wouldn’t run down their legs,” Sally told Valdis as they approached.

Valdis wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he nodded all the same.

It was a good spot for doing such activities as lounging. Sally went gamboling on ahead through the brush and high tussocky grass, like a jackalope, and Valdis followed slowly behind.

He opened up a curtain of dried winter creepers and stepped out into the little dell. Brother Thistle and the rest of the monks were sitting around a couple of campfires. They were enjoying a leisurely lunch consisting of gathered berries, wild herbs, mushrooms of various types, and a few roasted squirrels and rabbits.

One of the men got slowly to his feet when he saw the big former soldier step out into the light.

“Uh, who goes there, man?” he said.

Valdis looked at the youth. He had long, greasy hair and a rather magnificent array of skin conditions.

“I do,” he said, fixing the young man with his best soldier’s killing gaze.

“Oh, yeah, man, like, sure, it’s you. Come on in,” the would-be sentry said.

Val just brushed past him, shaking his head.

“Where’s Brother Thistle?” he asked the group.

“Sally Linen, who is this?” a man asked.

He was a rather plump individual who had detached himself from a campfire and was now walking slowly over through the knee-high grass. Like the others, he was wearing a plain brown robe. He had a fringe of black hair around the sides and back of his head and a great bushy black beard you could have hidden a beaver in—but only a beaver you didn’t like much and didn’t mind seeing suffocated.

Still, it’d be a well fed beaver for a while, Valdis thought. What with all the crumbs in the facial topiary.

He reminded Valdis of a younger, less clean version of Leopold Bibulus.

“My name is Valdis Wolfbane, and I’m here at the behest of Mayor Ravenstone of Timbermere. I’d like to chat to you about this bit of bother you’re having with the farmers about the stream. I assume you’re Brother Thistle.”

The man with the black beard inclined his head and folded his fingers across his belly. “I am Brother Thistle,” he acquiesced.

“Excellent, just the man I was hoping to talk to.”

“Yes, you said that already,” Brother Thistle pointed out.

“Now, I assume that is the stream in question.” Valdis pointed his finger at the running water behind the monk.

Brother Thistle glanced over his shoulder as if he had only just noticed that the stream was there. “That it is,” he said, beaming widely.

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