The Roads to Baldairn Motte

by Ahimsa Kerp

  “The Thralls of the Green People.” Cynric pressed the pouch into Trask’s hands.

  Hem’s eyes narrowed. “He’s mad.”

  “It’s a tale of this place and of Baldairn Motte,” said Caulder. “We know it as The Last King of Baelda.”

  “The Last King of Baelda, The Thralls of the Green People, The Blight Winter. All speak of the same tale,” said Cynric.

  “The Blight Winter’s not a hundred winters past,” said Hem. “Baldairn’s keep was a ruin even then.”

  The skald shook his head. “Not the Blight Winter of recent memory but one near a thousand years before, when the kings of Baelda fell to the Passions growing in the south. These were the times of the great gemstone mines and the hidden folk who dwelt in the shadows of the rocks, spying on the tall men who’d settled in the dales.”

  “The Green People and the Baeldans,” said Caulder.

  Trask sat up and opened the pouch. A blast of mint and dung assailed him and he gagged. He held the potent at arm’s length and dipped his fingers inside. The unction felt as the miller had described, like muck from the river. Most of it clung to his skin, but a watery film ran down his wrist.

  He gave Cynric an appraising gaze and decided the man was probably incapable of playing a jest. Maybe the leech would have a laugh, but anything was worth helping ease the ache in his leg. He pulled his trousers down and started working in the muck.

  “The folk of the kingdom of Baelda were called thralls,” said Cynric. “Maybe it was from the iron grip of their king.” He peered about the darkened hillsides, losing himself in his own thoughts. “Think of them walking through this dale, squabbling over the same food and drink as we do now. Our own tale would not be unreasonable to them.”

  “A tale of blackspurs?” Hem barked.

  Cynric ignored him. “All histories start with desire,” said the skald, “the passion that gave birth to the Passions. The desire for food can be as strong as any other, especially if the telling is right.

  “It was over a single gem that the entire dominion of the Baeldans fell. That is, according to the histories of Jab the Elder and found in the Annals of Kaith,” he added in a defensive tone as if those around the fire refused to believe him.

  “Too many histories,” said Hem. “What good are a man’s words if you can’t look him in the eye as he tells them?”

  “Quit your grumbling,” said Tillon. “Let the storysmith speak. You can gaze into his eyes all you want.”

  A few chuckles echoed from around the fire. The other conversations had ebbed, and a host of faces focused upon the skald. The miller’s cheeks flushed, and he mumbled a curse.

  Cynric bowed his head. “The kingdom of Baelda was founded on the wealth of the gemstone mines that once speckled the White Hills. A thousand years of battle raged as the early warrior-kings sought to carve out dominion, until Baer Half-axe gathered about him a Fist of warriors so mighty the lesser kings were forced to bend knee before him.

  “The warriors of Baer’s Fist became the first lords of Baelda. The folk who worked the fields and mines became thralls, near slaves, who toiled unto death at the mercy of their new lords.”

  Hem scoffed, and more than one of the faces around the fire mumbled of how little the times had changed.

  “But they have,” said Cynric. “The thralls of old were killed at the slightest hint of disobedience. Their masters ruled with a tight grip, roaming their lands like marauders, intent on power and wealth.”

  “Was it them that started culling the Green People?” someone asked.

  Cynric nodded. “The Green People lived in these lands long before the coming of the Baeldans. They had no desire to be ruled by another’s hand. They raided the Baeldan lords’ strongholds and stole what they felt by rights belonged to them.”

  “And the Baeldans lopped heads off for it, aye’ya?” Hem shifted his girth and tugged at his cloak like a restless bear. “Skip the fighting and get to the good bits.”

  “There aren’t any sheep in this one, Hem,” said Tillon. The miller blustered and lurched forward, pointing a finger but not finding any words. This time, hearty laughter swept through the gathering.

  When the mirth settled, Caulder asked, “What of Jael, the Amber Maiden?”

  Hem slapped his thigh. “There, the maiden bits, that’s the part we want to hear about.”

  Cynric cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. The murder of the Amber Maiden. Garen was the thrall’s name who worked the iron mines in the fields now known as the Hollows. His love was a maiden named Jael.”

  A cheer went up at the mention of the maiden. Trask grinned and for a time was able to chase away the worry that festered within. The night had turned brisk, and his bare legs rippled with gooseflesh, but he felt a numb bliss at work from the potent. It washed away the pain and relaxed his stiff tendons. He wrapped his clothes about him and settled into his cloak as he listened to Cynric tell of Garen and Jael and the great emerald found in the Hollows less than a day’s walk from where he lay.

  “When Garen discovered the emerald in the mine,” the skald was saying, “he tucked it into his boot and stole it from under his lord’s nose. The thrall gave the precious stone to his wife-to-be, but the lord discovered the theft and both Garen and Jael were captured.”

  Trask wondered how the lord discovered the deceit. The tales always spoke of rumors of the stone’s size or of the prying hands of the lord’s men, but nothing more than vague sketches. He wondered, as most did, what he would do if he stumbled upon such a stone. Would the promise of wealth be enough for him to place his family in peril? He didn’t think so. A crofter’s life suited him, and he desired little more than to work his lands with his family.

  “The motte-and-bailey at Baldairn towered over the dales, a stronghold that bonded the king to his land.” Cynric became more animated, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “The bodies of Garen and Jael were brought there and hung from the battlements so all the thralls could know what would happen if they disobeyed their lord.

  “But the thralls seethed and became bold in their anger. They spread poison across the dales with oaths of defiance. They rose up against the lesser lords and razed strongholds, and a cadre of sworn brothers came against Baldairn itself. They dressed as the Green People had once done, in the trappings of wild men. Under the moon, they stole to the battlements and cut down the body of Garen. But when they turned to the fair Jael, they were given such a fright that their hearts froze in terror.

  “For the body of Jael moved and spoke to them. It had become a wraith, risen to haunt the kings of Baelda and bring them to their doom.”

  The skald’s tale turned to the hardships of a folk at war with itself, of the battles and strife that led to the Blight Winter. Crops withered in the fields and craftsmen ignored their trade. The lords, blinded by their quest for power and greed, didn’t foresee how the slaying of their folk would bring them to ruin. Many starved, and those who could, left the dominion of the Baeldans for the rising kingdoms of the south.

  As the tale unfolded, Trask saw in it the folly of the lords’ and thralls’ rigid obedience. How it tore a kingdom to pieces when left to Ordryn’s will alone. He rubbed his leg and realized its ache had lessened so that he could bend it without grimacing. The pull of his heart grew stronger under that small knowledge. He studied the faces of his companions. Strangers, they seemed to him of a sudden, on a path that was not his own.

  A chill wind whistled through the dell and buffeted against his back, a cruel lord urging him toward Baldairn Motte. He pulled his cloak tighter and whispered again the oath he’d given to Gleda. Its words were soothing to his heart, and in that calm he chose his own path.

  Trask waited until the flames of the campfires shrunk to embers before rising to a crouch. Snores sounded all around, deafening the trickle of the Sprite. Despite the cold, he felt as if he could manage a lumbering gait if it came to it. The moist ground was slippery under his boots as he stepped around the sleeping f
orms of his friends. This was the last he’d see some of them. He wondered whether any would welcome him back.

  HEM

  Hem woke as the sun’s early light brightened the sky. His back clenched in protest. He worked a knuckle into it, kneading it like a lump of dough. The pains of war were already at him, and he hadn’t even had a chance to spear one of the southern blackspurs yet. His blood raced at the thought. He imagined himself standing at the tip of a wedge, assailing the horde of Fairnlin, ripping through their lines, seeing the fear and cowardice etched upon their faces. They were a wasteful folk, those from the south. They spent their days gluttonous and boorish. Their courts stunk of intrigue and greed. Not many among them knew what an honest day’s work was; the Passions they kept led them far from that virtue.

  Hem held his breath for a moment to calm himself. No use getting all worked up when there were still days to go before meeting the enemy. He glanced about for some food and saw none. Some of the others had rekindled the fires, but nothing roasted on any of the spits. He should’ve brought some flour or grain, he thought, no matter what Caulder said. Surely, the captain’s men wouldn’t have taken it all. They would’ve left him enough for morning pancakes. Hem’s stomach rumbled. Maybe Trask still had an apple or two. He turned, but the matted stretch of grass where his friend had lain was empty. Probably down near the Sprite or off pissing, he told himself, but he knew neither was true.

  Trask had deserted him.

  “It’s not right, putting a man between protecting his family and protecting his folk,” said Caulder. The chandler took a long gulp from a water skin, then held it out for Hem.

  “The two are the same. Every man here has kin to keep safe.” Hem grimaced. No, not every man. His Delna and little Jaelyn were dead, taken by the sweating sickness four summers past.

  Caulder merely nodded, ignoring the slip. The two turned at the clamor of the captain’s men as they mounted and fell into file. Their wagon train now included Jaren Bulware.

  “I suppose we’re meant to follow,” said Caulder.

  Hem nodded. He took a swig from the skin, and a smile spread to his lips.

  Caulder returned the grin. “I took a portion from Bulware’s cask last night and hid it away. Figured a good measure of stout would help our old bones fight the morning frost.”

  “Ah, with age comes wisdom,” said Hem. Along with Tillon and Cynric, they passed the skin until it was empty, then set off down the road with the sun bright and warm on their faces.

  The chandlers’ wain they left behind, having no cause to keep it now that Trask had left them. No one mentioned the absence of the crofter, but Hem’s thoughts didn’t stray far from the confusion he felt. He’d been certain his friend would follow the will of the northern lords. If everyone fought for themselves the southerners would surely destroy them, town by town and village by village.

  But he’d seen Gleda’s face when Trask had promised his wife to return. And that look, between husband and wife, was a bond above all else. If Delna had asked him the same—he shook his head—ifs and wishes were for the wind. He clenched his hands. He wanted a spear and something to kill.

  Tillon gathered a handful of pine needles for them to suck on as they marched. It was a pitiful meal, but for a time it kept their stomachs from grumbling. Men emerged from camps in the nearby fields and either fell behind or trudged ahead as the road meandered on. Scattered groups of horsemen trotted past, some wearing the badges of the Ordained and others the devices of the local lords. But neither group paid Hem and his companions any heed. If there was any plan or further news, Hem felt sure they would hear of it once they reached the main encampment at Baldairn Motte.

  The road rose to a ridge allowing a view of the road behind. A body of northmen snaked its way back to the Sprite and beyond. Steel glinted from the men-at-arms, whose horses plodded betwixt clusters of common folk. Some carried spears, others—mostly the farmers on foot—toted staves or shovels or hammers.

  “Three hundred, at least,” said Caulder.” And there’ll be more from Ashen Vale and the fisher towns on the coast.” The chandler had a layer of dirt and sweat caked on his face and neck, as they all had. His cloak was tied in a bundle and slung across his back. Hem had done the same, and a puddle of sweat collected where the bundle met his back.

  “Will they come up from North Port and leave their homes behind?” asked Cynric.

  “They’ve no choice,” said Caulder. “They’ve not the numbers to stand against the Fairnlin army. To give battle would be their deaths.”

  “Or an even worse fate,” said Tillon.

  Hem sneered at Cynric. The man had the heart of a southerner, to ask such a blackspur’s question. “Ordryn demands obedience, and Herren loyalty. To abandon the rest of the North for fear of their own would be a betrayal greater than that of Baardol’s. Even if they survived the invasion, they would not survive Hairng’s retribution.”

  Caulder placed a hand on the Cynric’s shoulder, a gesture warning him not to respond. Hem huffed. He realized his face was flushed and that the muscles of his arms and neck were strained. “Sheep-forning blackspur,” he mumbled as he barged past, setting off on their march once again. He didn’t quite know to whom he spoke—Cynric, himself, or Trask.

  The road ended at a shaded wood. There, sparrows chirped at them, and thrushes danced about pecking at beetles. Tall pines dusted them with dried needles. Near the wood’s far edge, a half-score of horsemen had reigned in. Some were dismounted, and as the shapes grew closer, Hem spied Lewes Blackspar among them. The captain shouted and gestured at a huddled mass upon the ground. The horses pranced and nickered, echoing the unease of their masters, who stood as if caught between the Dirk and the Dagger. One of the horsemen spotted Hem’s companions and beckoned.

  A lump came to Hem’s throat as he neared. He recognized the body a moment before Tillon’s curse cut through the air. Caulder uttered an oath to the Passions, and Cynric stared with wide, shifting eyes that took in everything.

  Cold fury spread through Hem’s chest. He tried to look away from Alric’s face, but couldn’t. The lanky man’s body was lashed to a crude pole, his hands bound and stretched above to form a triangle with his shoulders. The head lolled to one side, a deep gash at the neck was crusted red and brown.

  The pole had splintered in two, and Alric lay bent at the waist with his legs twisted at an odd angle. Fresh soil formed a mound around a hole next to him. Pillory was a common device used by the Ordained. It was meant to set an example for those who disobeyed, but Hem had never heard of the offender being executed. A man of the North slaying another. It didn’t make sense.

  Where was Orren?

  Unanswering, Alric’s eyes were gray and dim like they had been the day before when the Ordained had paraded him past. Hem had thought then they were filled with shame, but now he saw a wisp of acceptance, as if the man had been at peace with his fate.

  His anger boiled. He bulled toward the men-at-arms. Caulder reached out to hold him back, but he shrugged the chandler off. “You whore’s son!” he shouted at the man who’d gestured at them. He clenched his fists and stopped with his face less than a breath away from the horseman’s.

  The man’s gaze hardened. He struck with a gloved fist that caught Hem in the jaw. Hem staggered, then launched himself at the man-at-arms. The pair grappled, pulling on each other’s arms while trying to push the other to the ground.

  Blackspar’s men surged forward, brandishing their spears. Caulder stepped in warily, more intent on pulling Hem away than engaging the armed men-at-arms, but Tillon shoved the first that stepped in his path and threw a wild punch at the next. The captain shouted for his men to hold, and thrust the butt-end of his spear between the groups.

  Caulder managed to lock Hem’s arms. The miller strained against the chandler, but when his foe backed away, he slumped, panting in gasping breaths.

  “The captive is beyond Balin’s help.” Blackspar spoke to Hem and his companions but glared
at each of his men as well. “And even if he wasn’t, I won’t suffer my men to be attacked. Not by a southerner, and certainly not by fellow northmen.”

  “Captive?” asked Hem. “So this is the bailiff’s justice? Or do you still mean to bring Alric into the ranks of Lord Thurmwood’s army?”

  Blackspar’s face quivered. “I do not question the Ordained, nor their manner. If they found cause to dispense justice in place of the bailiff, then it is Ordryn’s Will.”

  Caulder pointed at the freshly disturbed hole and the broken pole. “Is it Ordryn’s Will that you remove Alric from the pillory? To hide their justice?”

  Some of the captain’s men shifted and Hem noted somber glances between them. Caulder’s question had found the root of their earlier unease.

  Blackspar’s youth surfaced in his eyes. The way he leaned on his spear reminded Hem of Jaelyn after being caught asleep in the mill when she was meant to be sweeping the hearth. The captain took a deep breath and steadied himself before speaking. “The Ordained are the Hand of Ordryn, but I am in service to the lord of Thurmwood. I must ensure his will be done, even at my own peril.”

  “And hanging a murdered farmer for all the levies to see, that doesn’t sit well with Thurmwood’s will?” Hem growled.

  “When I saw it,” Blackspar paused and turned to regard the body. “The men at the camp last night sang and drank and told stories with laugher and cheer. This sight would take that from them.” He shook his head. “That’s going to happen soon enough in the oncoming days. Why not try to let the men stay happy a little longer?”

  Hem folded his arms across his chest, but remained quiet. The captain drew himself up and suddenly the mask of command was there again. He eyed Tillon. “You were on the road yesterday. You knew him.” He pointed at Hem. “And you knew him as well. See his body to rest so the Passions can grant him peace.”