by Brad Carsten
Ardin had watched the boy over the last few days and enjoyed seeing his potential, even at such a young age. He was strong willed, he would buck every rule, yet loving and innocent. He was fascinated with Sir Remus' weapons and kept wanting to hold them.
Sir Remus was taken with him and gave him his own knife to carry and at night would show him how to use it. The boy was equally fascinated with the tracker's bow and made a nuisance of himself wanting to shoot it.
The tracker was patient though and always took the time to show him and explain everything as though it was the first time he had asked.
The tracker was another interesting one. He kept to himself mostly, sitting alone away from the fire. Ardin had seen the sketch once; the tracker was a man in love, while barely a man at that. At fifteen, he was one of the finest shots Ardin had ever seen, as good as any knight. They had only eaten most evenings because of that bow, and his sense of direction was beyond natural. He could point to any town or city and head straight for it like a larking arrow. He took after his father, as Ardin had suspected when he first met the lad, but the gift was stronger in him; much stronger. He'd never seen anything like it and wondered what the young man could have been if his potential had been discovered at a young age. He too would have been great, but it was too late for him. He would have to make his own way in life, and Ardin wished him all the luck.
The last scout returned with the same news. King Roderic was dead, long live the king—the true king.
Five miles out of the city, they could make out the spires of the palace, the crown jewel of the city, in flames, and a further four miles in, they came across the first body. The people exiting the city had slowed to a trickle, and many were injured. There had been a fight, and word was it hadn't ended. Someone knew they were going to Gosspree-nor, and they knew why.
Whether prince Thomwyn had anything to do with it, he couldn't say, and it wasn't his place to, but he felt the cold winds of change blowing down his neck, knowing that whatever happened, the kingdom would never be the same again.
***
“What are you going to do now?” Liam asked. He was battling to speak, as were the others, but for different reasons. He had pictured the city from stories shared in taverns and had seen towns that many of the older folk from Brigwell would write off as tales, but he had never imagined anything like this. Buildings covered as far as the eye could see in all directions, and some were as tall as trees. The city walls had houses built into them and were wide enough for three or four carriages, and then there was the palace—built into the side of the mountain, conquering it. It was just as tall—just as tall as a mountain! Surely it couldn't have been built by the hands of men. It took his breath away, and then to see it burning... Liam realised then how insignificant he was and how small and meaningless his ambitions were. He thought he could stand out, to make a name for himself, but how could a mere man make a difference when places like this existed... and places like this could burn. All he knew was that he would never be the same again.
Captain Ardin drew out a sack from his saddlebag and threw it over to Liam. It was larger and heavier than the first. A lot heavier. “That's for getting us here in under two weeks.”
He held out a hand and clasped Liam's wrist. “Head back to your village and warn them that war’s coming. You have a sturdy wall, but it's fallen apart. You need to rally the men to rebuild it. Your village falls on the outskirts of the kingdom, and if the kingdom splits, those lands will be the first to fall. Preserve food and keep your weapons sharp. I've seen the sketch. You have someone to return to. Enjoy love and what time you have with her for the future is no longer certain. And if we ever meet again, I'll be seeking your talents to help reinstate a king.”
“What about you? What are you going to do?” What did he mean reinstate a king? Had king Roderic lost his throne? Whatever was happening here, he had to get back to Tarla. He had to warn her. He had to make sure she was okay. He'd ride as fast as he could, pushing as hard as possible, until his horse collapsed from exhaustion, and then he'd buy another. He had to get back to her ahead of the trouble.
“We'll wait,” Captain Ardin said. He turned to leave, and what was left of the group fell in behind him. And as the city burned, they rode west for a new land.
***
Tarla died the following winter. Pocklung took her, and by the end, she was too weak to get out of bed. Liam spent almost two-thirds of his coin on doctors and medicine and then hours next to her bed, holding her hand, hopeless to do anything about it. She was brave and kept her spirits right until the end, talking about growing old together and how the green would be covered in lacebuds. And when the fever took hold of her, she looked at Liam thoughtfully and remarked that she had finally found a way to keep warm in winter.
And when he laid the lacebud on her box as they lowered her into the ground, he pictured her alone and confined and in the dark, and the reality of it all finally settled on him.
She hated being alone. She surrounded herself with people and noise and colour and pretty things, and he couldn’t breathe. He had to rip off the sash around his neck and push through the line of villagers filing past. He fell to his knees and retched until there was nothing left to bring up. Quinn laid a hand on his back and remained with him quietly until the villages had slowly dispersed. They sat alone on the hill overlooking the world where he and Tarla had shared their first kiss and many more after that. It was where she'd captured his heart and given him a reason to hold his head up high.
He watched the sun setting over the fields, painting it all in deep oranges and pinks and couldn't bring himself to leave. Quinn brought him a pillow and a blanket and he slept there that night so she wouldn't be afraid.
For months, he'd bring a lantern to her headstone every night, until he no longer knew why he was doing it anymore or even what she had looked like.
The village girls filled out into women and batted their eyelids at him, and fell out of love with him and in with someone else. Ten years passed. They got married, had kids, and he waited. He gave up tracking, and instead toiled the ground alone until his hands were calloused and he waited. He didn't know what he was waiting for. Perhaps it was for Captain Ardin to return. Perhaps he was waiting for something better to come along. Or perhaps he was waiting for his days to run out, he couldn't say. But he lost those dreams of a fifteen-year-old who longed for adventure and to make his mark on the world, because things just didn't work like that. Not for a forgotten man living in a forgotten village.
Chapter 7
Much had changed in the kingdom over ten years, but the village of Brigwell remained the same tucked far away from the hands of politics and war.
The Branbills and Tarplewolds bickered about everything with everyone. Master Lowold kept hammering away in his smithy, although his shoulders were not quite as large as they used to be nor his hair quite as thick, and Master Anson still strut around with his rooster banner, keeping his nose in the air like he could see out of the cursed thing.
Old man Branbill passed away two years gone, and the children all but forgot about the giant waterwheel. Seasons came and went. The Tallisyn barracks fell, and a lot of the surrounding land was swallowed into the neighbouring kingdoms. The villagers rebuilt the wall, and the men took it in turn to patrol, but Brigwell lay tucked away in the Kandwyn mountains mostly forgotten.
The assessors stopped coming to the village, and news from the capital dried up often for months at a time, but when news did trickle in, it was never pleasant.
A prolonged war had stripped the lands of her resources. Tax increased, and those who couldn't pay were claimed for the kingdom. For the first time ever, peasants were being drafted into the once great army to keep what was left of the borders secure.
Strangers whispered of lords plotting and new dangers along the roads, but it was the beasts that frightened them the most. No one knew where they came from, only that they arrived when the kingdom fell. At night, Liam could
hear them screeching like demons. It was enough to sour a man’s stomach. People slept with a weapon close at hand and would check the latches on their windows before going to bed and then recheck them.
***
“Three Mites!” The man’s lumpy head quivered in outrage. It looked like a large potato on his shoulders. Liam pictured a leaf sprouting out the top and had to look away quickly to hide his amusement. “Now, just you wait a tick. Last season, I could buy a wagon load for half the price. Quarter even. No, that price shall ruin me. You, sir, shall be my downfall.” He pressed a hand to his brow dramatically. “But I know how we can fix this. I'll give you two Mites and a Tippen. Come on then, what do you say?”
The market was bustling even more than usual which must have had something to do with that years unusually heavy rain. Pigs squealed getting underfoot, and men exchanged news and bartered and shouted their wares.
Children splashed through the mud with dogs barking after them, and goats watched it all from their cages, contently chewing their cud.
There were stands to tempt hungry stomachs with freshly baked pies and sweet cakes and beer by the barrel load. Liam’s stomach growled from all the delicious smells converging on him.
“That's the best I can do,” Liam said, half-heartedly. So much for paying for a good spot at the entrance. The supervisor had assured him that he could catch the buyers fresh. “Fresh as a goose, with fat purses.” But today it wasn’t about the money. He had other reasons to be done as soon as possible.
“Oh, my poor heart,” the Potato Man cried. “The dispeller said it may give in under stress. You, sir, shall have to explain to my wife, and—and five ducklings why I'm not around.”
Liam was too tired to argue. It had been a long day haggling with every chancer and swindler in the kingdom. He’d present his arguments and show them the quality of his produce, but times were hard, and people couldn't afford to pay the extra coin or didn’t want to.
Then there were the sellers who needed the money and were willing to sell whatever they could grow in their garden. A lot of them had entered the market driving down the prices, and everyone was expecting the farmers to follow suit.
Liam could last a few hours negotiating better prices, but by the afternoon, he was grumpy and tired, and then he’d notice the stench and the flies and the busyness of it all and would long to pack it all in, for good this time, and set out for a faraway place.
He had no interest in grain. He had no interest in how many bushels in a Mite or pails in a Tippen. His farm ran along the Almsbury river where the soil was rich and the ground moist. It produced some of the finest crops in the district—crops that were the envy of a lot of men, and yet he didn’t know why he wasn’t content.
“I'll take my business elsewhere then. Good day to you, Sir.” The man threw his chin into the air, but he kept a beady eye on Liam like a miscreant watching his neighbor through a hole in the wall.
Liam could get twice that amount if he was willing to negotiate, but his mind was on other things. He was meeting Master Madagar in town and had been waiting a long time for that.
“Okay,” Liam sighed. “I’ll give it to you for three Mites and two Tippens, if you take the remaining stock as well.”
“Deal.” The man’s face split into a grin. He counted out the coins into Liam's hand, whistling a merry tune, and snatched up the sacks as quickly as he could like a beggar at a laden table, as though not even he could believe his turn of good fortune.
Liam collapsed onto the neighbouring paddock wall exhausted. At least that obligation was over for another month. As much as he hated this place, his money bag was as fat as a suckling calf. As he sat there in the afternoon sunlight allowing the day’s shackles to slip free, he thought about his newest treasure waiting to be collected, and a fresh excitement began to bubble up inside of him finally breaking the day’s frustration.
Master Madagar waited at a table outside the Old Whistler inn. Vines in flower boxes grew up a wooden trellis reaching over the handful of tables outside. In summer, it would be covered in Bluebulbs giving the inn a fresh smell.
“Master Liam, it's always a pleasure to see you.” He extended his arms in a grand gesture. He looked good. When Liam first met him, he was gaunt and sickly, but he had since filled out, and his hair had a healthy shine.
“Wait till you see what I have for you. Oooh, let me tell you, this is the best I've done by far, and that I do not say lightly.” Master Madagar had worked for the royal library in the palace, before the kingdom tore apart, but like most of the citizens, he’d escaped the city and made his way inland to start a new life with his wife and seven daughters. As the trouble grew, he followed the crowds moving north, until he ended up in Lyndwon.
“Well, you’ve surprised me so many times already, and yet you somehow always find a way to outdo yourself, but what else can I expect from one of the most respectable and famous cartographers in the kingdom.”
The man chuckled. “I’m afraid if a man is looking for fame, cartography isn't the right profession—not for fame and certainly not for women. If only my tutors had warned me of that before I set off with them after the assessments. Come, take a seat. What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll get the drinks. I insist, and something for us to eat. After all, I was the one who dragged you into town today.”
“Nonsense. There isn't much work for a cartographer this far from anywhere needing a map. It's you who's kept the doors open and the only reason I haven't been drafted into the army to pay off my debt. A lousy mug of groel is the least I can do.” He raised a hand to call over a serving maid. “We’ll drink and talk about the days of old when a man could still explore this great land alone and without fear. But first, you must tell me what you think of your map.” Master Madagar produced a hardened leather tube half again as long as a man's arm outstretched. It was by far the largest that Liam had ever commissioned.
Liam collected every map he could get his hands on, and then in the evening, by candlelight, he’d haul them out and trace his finger along the roads to plot out a journey in his mind imagining the villages he would pass and the people he would meet and the stories he would collect along the way. He had been growing restless and was memorising the routes, as his father had taught him, so that if the time came, he’d be ready for it. Perhaps when he was forty, he’d abandon the farm and set out leaving it all behind and finally get to live the kind of life he had once longed for.
Liam took the map slowly, almost reverently. He clicked open the catch at the top and slowly slid out the parchment. The paper was an excellent quality—thick and durable, and the color was an even rich brown. It smelled freshly pressed with a strong leather scent from the tube. Liam wiped the table down with a cloth. It wouldn't do to get dust or wine rings on it. He rolled the map out across the table, and all the while, Master Madagar was watching him in delight.
First, he got to see the ornate border, and he couldn't believe the care assigned with every stroke of the pen. Every inch was a work of art with swirls forming into birds and people and finally a sketch of the palace covering almost the entire bottom corner of the page. The detail was outstanding, and then came the map and that was even better. The forests were made up of thousands of trees all drawn individually. Villages spread across sloping hills. Tiny, tiny villages that were no doubt drawn under a lens. The map was large, but it covered a lot of ground. Liam dropped onto the bench, wanting to say something, to gush, but he couldn't find the words.
“You approve?” Master Madagar said, with a grin.
Liam blew out his cheeks. All he could do was laugh, and Master Madagar joined him.
Liam dropped his purse onto the table to count out the rest of what he owed and was so inspired, he ended up pressing the entire purse into Madagar’s hands.
“Master Liam, I cannot accept. There must be twice what we agreed to here—three times that. No, I cannot accept.” He slid the purse back across the table, but Liam put
a hand over his to stop him.
“Please, I insist. This must have taken you five, if not ten times as long to create, and I cannot take it with a clear conscience. Besides, my farm is now paying for itself. If only it would start tending to itself as well.”
“But Master Liam, you have done more than enough already. Fate knows, if not for you, my family would be in the streets, so this is my way of giving a little something back.”
“Okay, why don’t we consider that a deposit on the western territories then, until I can get the rest to you, but I want you to up the price on the next one. How in the kingdom did you manage to do this?”
Madagar chuckled again. “I guess old age is agreeing with me, but truth be told, it's having a full belly again that's agreeing with me even more. Oh, before I forget, Lily drew her own map that she wanted me to give you as a thank you for the lovely feastday present. I wouldn't go by it, the rooms are larger than the barn, but she has a keen eye, even if she's only six years old.” He drew out a crudely drawn map of their house and chuckled.
“Taking after her father, I see. It shall have the place of honour above my lintel.”
“I'll let her know.”
Liam rolled it carefully and returned to studying the larger map. He traced his finger along the Abbotton road, already feeling the adventures forming in his mind. He knew most of the routs southwest, but the map had filled in many of the smaller roads and missing names and other details. He didn't realise there was a village along the Farlington route, and as his finger slid past it, he could hear the hammering coming from the blacksmith and the laughter in the tavern. He wondered what the houses looked like and what the people would be like there. Just south of that was a stone archway, and his finger halted above it and a heaviness settled over him. “I see you included the spans.”