Free Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) by Ben Galley Page B

their cottages and walls. Some of these ruts had been thoughtfully filled with sand or gravel, while the rest had been left as gaping, wheel-jarring holes. Farden assessed his section of road once again, as he had earlier that afternoon. None of the holes were severe enough to stop a coach, and even if they had been, the driver would see them in time and steer clear of them. Cow-drawn coaches were not known for their breakneck speeds.
    Thunder vibrated the sky again, louder and bolder this time, and Farden stood up. In the booming echoes, he cupped his ears, hearing an unmistakable rattling coming from somewhere in the rain. Somewhere further down the road. The sound of rusty axles and loose bolts. Of iron-shod wheels kissing old cobbles, getting closer all the time.
    It was time. Farden rubbed his hands.
    On the far side of the road was a pine tree. Wrapped in lichen and drowned in ivy, the tree was rotten to the core. Its bark had flaked away, exposing the flaky splinters beneath, dyed green and yellow by the rot. It looked as though it would topple at any moment. And that was exactly why Farden had spent the afternoon hacking at it with his axe.
    Farden quickly crossed the road, hopping over the puddles and potholes until he had been swallowed by the bracken once more. Farden cast around, rubbing the rain from his face and pushing aside the intrusive bracken. ‘Where is it now?!’ he hissed to himself, cursing. Something clanked against his foot and he reached for it. It was his axe, slimy with the wet. Farden hefted it, ignoring its blunt, notched edge, and instead turned his attention to the gaping notches he had already gouged out of the tree, one on each side. He prodded them with the toe of his boot and was rewarded with a wet squelch. The tree creaked in the wind. There was barely any wood holding the tree up at all. It was perfect.
    Farden gripped the axe and held it against his shoulder, waiting. The clattering wheels were rolling ever nearer, he could hear them as clear as day. The sky shook with thunder once more, and Farden raised his axe to the sky as the lightning flashed again, and let it bite deep into the rotten wood with a wet thud.
    A moment passed, filled with nothing, nothing but the rain and the storm. Farden stepped back, leaving the axe embedded in the tree. He pulled a grim face. Shit. The coach would be on him any moment. Farden pushed on the tree. Nothing. Not even a creak. He tugged on the axe, but the blade had bitten deep, and refused to budge. Shit again , he told himself. There was nothing else for it. Farden took a step back, grit his teeth, and aimed a wild kick at the handle of the axe. There was a resounding crack as his boot collided with the axe, forcing it deeper. Farden had to keep from clapping as the tree whined a slow, sad whine and slowly but surely, began to topple. It was just in time.
    A team of four tired-looking brown cows emerged out of the rainy haze, a faded purple coach close behind them. The cows pulled in pairs; each wearing a thick collar with curved hames around their thick necks, to which the traces of the coach were harnessed. The patchwork beasts were soaked to the bone. Steam billowed from their grimy noses. They plodded along sullenly, paying almost no attention to the impatient coachman and skinny footman that sat behind them on the narrow box at the front of the coach. They were dressed in the bright yellow and purple livery of the Maudlow Duchy, or to be exact, the livery of Maudlow’s rather extravagant and flamboyant son. The coat of arms emblazoned on their chest was a tree wrapped in a ribbon, a large, stylised H held in its branches.
    The two men on the box looked half asleep, heads and eyes drooped, hands limply hanging onto the reins. They probably would have been asleep, had it not been for the rain. They soon came awake when they spied the toppling tree in their path. Their sleepy expressions turned to ones of exasperated horror. The coachman leapt