by Ahimsa Kerp
These last few days we have turned our attention to burning the dead, before any pestilence sets in and the smell of decay becomes overwhelming. The weather is turning for the better, and while it is a boon to those injured, the heat turns corpses rancid all the more quickly.
As the injured regain their strength and faculties, I hurry them away to their homes with as much haste as possible. Though there are no gentry here to command them, this war has bred hatred between the northern and southern folk. More than one scuffle has broken out among them. It seems foolish to me—they have more in common with each other than any of the lords who have abandoned them here—but it is difficult to so easily dismiss enmity that has been bred into us, particularly in light of mass destruction and death. To dismiss enmity and hatred is to admit to yourself that your slain kin and friends have died for naught. To further complicate issues, the southerners have been telling of ghosts that haunt the ancient motte here. As I said, this is not the first battle to have been waged here. I hope it will be the last. Our land already has seen too many needless ghosts.
I send this letter to you by way of three enlisted soldiers from Galkmeer’s army. In return for the help I gave them, they promise to deliver the letter to the Healing House upon returning to Fairnlin, and I hope it finds you in good health if not spirit. When my work is done here at Baldairn Motte, I mean to head towards Baardol where fighting continues. After that, perhaps I will head farther north into the lands of the Marchers. I apologize to you again for my betrayal of Balin, and implore you not to send the Ordained after me—they will never find me.
Your loyal servant friend,
- Basilides
HONOR
A MORNING STORM
He would slay them in their sleep if the Passions left him no other option. Orren studied the Ordained’s stockade within Lord Hairng’s encampment, erected upon the ruins of Baldairn Motte. Those of the Order milled about, tending to rents in armor and stepping their mounts around in circles to keep them warm and limber. Others from the greater encampment passed up and down the hillside, mostly farmers and craftsmen, carrying spears and loaves of crusted bread and skins of thick ale.
Orren’s lip twitched. He folded his arms across his chest, thumbing the hilt of his dirk. He would start with the bastard, Ipswyn Bowyer. The man who’d strung Alric from a pillory and slit his throat, all for naught but a lord’s whimsy. That was what this whole damn war had been about, the whimsy of lords. Rivers of blood ran under those lords’ feet, and they still didn’t give a shite. Well there was nothing he could do to avenge those dead. But Alric, he could fight for Alric. They called Orren craven. Perhaps he was. But he still held a sliver of honor in his heart, and he knew fighting for those bastards wasn’t honor.
Rain pelted Orren as he watched. It melted the hoarfrost that had coated everything during the night’s chill. The storm had set upon them quickly, spoiling any chance of continuing the battle begun the day before. Lord Hairng’s army and the southern horde across the field were forced to idle away the morning in restless suspension.
Orren pulled the hood of his cloak tighter about his brow. He hadn’t expected to live to see the morning, nor the storm. He’d expected to lay among the previous day’s dead, carted off the battlefield under the setting sun, nameless and satisfied in purpose. He’d meant to slay those of the Order who’d crossed his path in the press of the lines; he had no quarrel with his lord’s southern enemies. But the ranks of the Ordained hadn’t joined the battle. Instead, they’d ridden off with his lord’s retinue to spy the fighting from the ridge above.
Snarling at the memory, Orren swung his gaze to the dark-haired man-at-arms who stood near the edge of the stockade. The man held a long-handled axe in a flaccid embrace. His eyes were hooded and drowsy. Orren debated how quickly he could kill the guard when a familiar gait caught his attention near a pavilion beyond the horses’ picket.
His heart trembled. His vision narrowed upon a black pendant, one depicting a down-turned sword with scales balanced from its quillions. Ipswyn Bowyer held a rosewood map case under one arm. A thick-bladed sword hung from his hip. The Ordained who’d slain Alric marched with purpose toward the pavilion, pushing its heavy flap aside to reveal a warm glow within.
A gust howled through the fields and whipped at Orren’s cloak. It urged him onward, and his feet answered the herald. He clutched the dirk beneath the folds of his cloak, ready to pounce on any who barred his path. He swore an oath to the Passions of Chaos, for atonement, and for justice.
As Bowyer disappeared into the pavilion, Orren hurried his pace. He ducked behind a pair of bowmen who trudged up the hillside, their great crossbows resting on broad shoulders. The guard watched him come but showed no interest. Only when Orren was a few paces away, did the man shift the grip on his axe. By then it was too late. Orren lunged, raising his blade high above his head and driving it down through the man’s throat and into his chest.
The man gurgled, falling slack. Orren yanked his dirk free and shoved the man aside. A cry of alarm sounded as the guard’s body dumped to the ground, but Orren didn’t pause to spy its source. He dashed for the pavilion, its mouth calling him toward vengeance, goading his rage.
Horses pounded the ground behind him. Two Ordained, with swords drawn, barreled down the slope. The flap of the pavilion opened, and Orren sprang inside. He crashed into Bowyer. As they fell inside, Orren’s dirk found purchase in the Ordained’s shoulder, but his thrust was halted by the overlapping scales of the man’s armor.
Orren wrenched the dirk free. A fist slammed into his gut. It knocked the wind from him and sent him flailing across the ground. He slashed with his blade and saw it skid off the corner of Bowyer’s eye. He tried to roll to a crouch, but his foot skidded beneath him. A hand clamped onto his wrist. Its grip was stone and pinned the dirk to his side. The Ordained pushed him onto his back, the added weight of the armor crushing Orren’s chest. Fire raced through his lungs as he struggled for breath. With his free hand, he raked at the man’s face.
Bowyer grunted and shifted his weight. “You!” he said, eyes bright with recognition. He brought his fist back and drove it into Orren again and again. Orren’s eyes swelled and his nose gave way with a sickening crack.
“It’ll be the fires for you, as it should’ve been before,” growled Bowyer. “You will join your friend, craven.”
On a pillory, to proclaim his cowardice to the entire encampment. Orren struggled to hold onto consciousness. Dark shadows plagued his vision, blood ran down his throat. He would not buckle so easily to be strung up as a coward and burned as a villain. He summoned the rage pent within his heart and focused his will upon one final task.
Something hard dug into the top of his chest. He choked back a laugh: it was the black pendant from his nightmares, the token of the Order’s ordainment. Grinning red, he ripped the pendant from the man’s neck and thrust it into the soft flesh of the thigh, between the legs. He felt a warm gush. The pendant's sharp edge had severed the artery.
Ipswyn Bowyer jerked, shock upon his face. He fell to one side, clutching at his groin. Blood spurted through his fingers, his life draining with each pulse. Feebly, he crawled toward the pavilion’s entrance. Orren’s lips curled into a satisfied snarl. Reclaiming his dirk, he leapt atop the Ordained, driving his blade into the man’s flesh over and over, wherever it was exposed, until Bowyer’s stare became vacant.
Orren had hidden when this man murdered Alric. He could not take that back. But perhaps Alric’s family would remember him better now. Perhaps others would too, if they did at all. Behind him, the pavilion’s flap rustled. Footsteps thundered toward him. Flipping his blade around, Orren shoved its point into the base of his throat. The Ordained would not hear him scream, as he roasted in their fires.
THRALLS OF THE FAIRIE
TRASK
A rolling wind hammered the door to the croft, its aged wood trembling under each gust. The last rays of sunlight crept through the cracks between
the boards, like fingers stretching out for shelter against the coming darkness. Trask started. Not for the first time, his eyes darted toward the jingling latch. But it stayed in place, and neither of his sons strode through the threshold. His gaze lingered before he begrudgingly let it drop, though the hairs on the back of his neck remained stiff with worry.
Behind him, the family’s heifer grunted her disdain and rubbed against the side of the pen. Not used to being cooped up on a warm spring evening, she eyed Trask with a sleepy intensity as he worked the feathers out of a spotted hen. Grass lay in a pile at her feet. A low fence divided the single room of the house, keeping the heifer and the two lambs sleeping beside her from roaming into the large hearthstone at its center. The stones of the floor were blackened there, and a small fire warmed a kettle of broth.
“You’ll cut yourself good, you keep jumping like that,” said Gleda. She frowned at him but gave the door a worried glance herself before settling back to her kneading board.
“Leave it, wife,” Trask mumbled, though not loud enough for her to hear. His voice sounded as tired as he felt. It had been a long week of rumor and worry. The southerners were in revolt, some said, and others said that Baardol was in flames. Still more told of the Marchers laying waste to the Near North, but no one had seen them and the Elk Roads remained heavy with trappers and silkmen.
Trask’s sons had set out for the market cross at Burn Gate early in the morning, hopeful of news from the burghers who lived there. If any had a thumb on the comings from Fairnlin to Hairng, it would be the men who navigated its trade. But, just the same, Trask regretted letting the boys go. And more, he regretted he hadn’t gone himself.
He felt old. His leg ached from the fall he’d taken earlier that winter. He couldn’t sit on a horse, and while Burn Gate was the nearest village to his croft, it would’ve taken him the better part of the day to hobble there.
“They’ll come back hungry for their supper, and I mean to have it hot and ready for them,” said Gleda. “So you just keep plucking.”
Trask put down the hen. “Master Bulware probably brought them in for a pot of stout. That’s all.” He stood and ducked his head under a bundle of garlic and onions that hung from a beam. Working a knuckle into the small of his back, he wheezed.
“You’ll need to check the coops,” said Gleda.
“I’ve checked them twice already. We’ve stores enough buried in the garden. If it’s hard times coming, another egg won’t make a difference. It’s the heifer we need to hide, and our lambs, and our harvest. The apples will be the first to go, you just see. And it won’t be the southerners, neither. The sheep-forners from Bael’s Crag will spirit them off in their wagons, leaving the rest of us to starve.”
Gleda set the dough into an iron skillet and placed it on the bed of coals in the center of the hearth. “We’ve faced hard winters before. I shouldn’t think fretting about what you can’t control will help none now. So why don’t you keep your mind to your duties.”
Trask’s jaw worked. Gleda’s ability to restate his thoughts in a manner that scolded him like a child always brought his blood to boil. Hadn’t he just been saying he had no control? The woman would keep him spinning from dawn to dusk if he let her.
The wind howled, and the door shuddered again. This time a shadow moved. Trask swallowed. Hope kindled in his chest, but the man who barged in was almost Trask’s own age, a stout giant with a beard fuller than the hair on his head.
“Balin’s arse, Hem!” said Trask. “Thought you was one of the Fairie the way you come shouldering in like that.”
“What a stink in here,” the large man responded. When Gleda glared at him, he mumbled, “Not your cooking, mother, of course. Just the heifer keeping herself warm, I suppose.” He studied Trask. “Why so glum?”
“You were meant to be the boys.”
Hem shrugged apologetically and pulled a stool from the wall to squat on. His arms and neck were caked in grain dust, and his knuckles were swollen from getting pinched under the millstone he worked down on the banks of Gildan’s Sprite. When he reached for the kettle over the fire, Trask noticed the miller had mud caked to the sleeves of his shirt.
“I’ve been near the village this forenoon. The burghers met with the bailiff on news from North Port. Seems the captain of a caravel, the Sully Maid, tells of a fleet that sailed from Kiln.”
“We’ve heard this rumor before. A fortnight ago, they were sailing from Gaulang.” Trask perched on a bench near the fire.
Hem shook his head. “Twenty ships, the captain said. Twenty ships already at anchor in North Port unloading grain and tack and salted beef to feed an army. Conscripted trading vessels by the looks of things, with crews eager to shove off before the main body arrives. This is more than rumor.”
“Lord Hairng has made a mess of things,” said Trask, “not bending knee to the Horse Master. The southern cunnies won’t ever swear fealty to a hand-me-down king from the North, especially a boy king.”
“Borkyr Ernmund is the son of one queen and half-brother to another,” said Gleda. “And he has the blood of Hairng, begat from the Fairie.”
“Tsk, wife. Do you not think the southerners also claim some Passion’s blood for their lord? Valnon or Balin? It matters not the blood of things if war is coming.”
“Aye’ya, that’s true,” said Hem. “The time for boasting has passed. If Kiln and Gaulang have joined with Fairnlin, they mean to strike at Borkyr while his father marches on Baardol. Audwin Ernmund has left the North empty of fighting men.”
Trask sucked a breath through his teeth as the reason for Hem’s visit dawned on him. “The burghers met with the bailiff. They fear a southern army would reach Hairng town and castle before Lord Hairng returns.”
“They do, and they mean to marshal a force to hold the southern cunnies back.”
Hen fat and sage dribbled down Gleda’s fingers as she filled three trenchers with torn pieces of the roasted bird and set them on a low table. She hacked at the bread, fetched hot and crisp from the hearth, with a knife. Wisps of her hair covered her face, but Trask could sense the scowl etched there.
Night had come while the miller told his story again. The large man wasn’t one for flair, but there was a certain amount of eagerness in the way he spoke of the troubles to come. Trask wanted nothing to do with the lords or their fighting. He wanted only to see his sons and wife safe.
He sipped at an onion broth, speaking over the lip of a wooden bowl. “I must go to Burn Gate. Tonight.”
Gleda rose but gave no argument. Trask knew she had already arrived at the same conclusion. “I will make a leech’s pot to ease your leg.” She pulled at some herbs tied to the drying rack near the fire and put a fresh kettle to boil.
“The bailiff is more like to call for a marshalling as to start pressing lads in the village,” said Hem. “Nat and Bren are probably just off in the Hollows, shooting at butts.”
“Not after dark.” Trask shook his head. “They know I’d flay them for it.” He shoved the last of the hen into his mouth and wiped his greasy fingers on his trousers. “Bulware will know where they are. Not a sparrow passes through the market cross without him catching wind of its comings and goings.”
“Aye’ya.” Hem nodded.
“Do you mean to take your bow?” Gleda wiped her hands on her apron and rung them together, though her gaze remained stern.
Trask responded to her silent question. “I mean to return on the morrow with the boys, not throw my lot in with the fool blackspurs.”
Hem snorted. “This is invasion, Trask. The bailiff will need more than rogues and cotters to fill the ranks. He’ll need the workingmen, too. Balin’s arse, the North will need them!” The large man turned red in the face and crossed his arms across his chest.
Twisting tufts of his hair, Trask shifted his weight and stared into the fire. He owed three-quarters of his harvest to the Lord of Thurmwood and another tenth to the burghers. The rest he used in trade to feed and clot
he his family. It was a grueling life of long days and little reprieve, but he held a belief that if he bent his neck and worked hard the Passions would leave him alone. He had already paid his masters enough.
Gleda thrust the leech’s pot under his nose. It smelled of mint and pine. When he took it, she clapped his ear softly, a gesture she did when she caught him brooding. He started and grumbled into the hot drink. It burned his throat, but he could already feel his limbs dull, and the ache in his leg lessened.
Swallowing the last, he gathered his cloak and cowl and stuffed a pair of apples into a traveling sack. “Salt the lambs tomorrow and hide the meat with the other stores,” he said to his wife. “It’s going to be a hard winter, and harder still on those who think the bailiff and local lords can protect them.”
“The blessings of Ordryn will find us,” said Gleda.
Trask grunted but finished the saying. “And guide obedient servants with love and will.” He came to Gleda and wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll bring them home.”
She buried her head into his chest and inhaled a deep breath.
“I’ll go with you,” said Hem, rising. “The night is dark and you may need help crossing the Sprite. The bridge at Thrall’s Dale is three leagues out of the way.”
Trask gazed at his wife’s face. Worry knotted his brow and clenched his jaw tight.
“I know the Hollows,” she said, reading him. “I will hide in the shadow places if it comes to it.”
He nodded, pulled her tight again, and then left the warmth of hearth and home.
The lonely dirge of a gale roamed the countryside, wallowing in fen and field. The wind buffeted the pines and brambles, stirring the branches and causing a hail of needles to shower down. Cold sneaked through Trask’s cowl. His leg ached, but he was able to limber while they walked through flat farmland before heading into the uneven footing of the hillocks.