The Dawn of Unions

by J P Corwyn

  “The Thorion throne hears your words, accepts your oath, and offers you its own: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with deadly vengeance." She wiped at her eyes briefly – a very un-Ylspeth action to undertake in public. "Rise Sir Valad. The Thorion Throne and its protector have need of your service once again."

  “With pleasure, Excellency.” Valad stood, bowing from the waist.

  “Please ensure that we are prepared to depart on schedule, at dawn. Any knight who is not in the column as we leave the northern gate will be left behind. The autumn festival-“

  “-Will not suffer your Excellency’s late arrival.” Valad cut her off in a gentle tone. “I have already informed Sirs Anden, Cedric, and Reginald. Giles and Dorean will be with Anden, so that sorts that.” He paused, then offered a final bow as he withdrew. “I have you, Excellency. All will be as you command.”

  Ylspeth nodded as the newly re-minted knight backed toward the exit.

  In two days' time, they would arrive, fate be kind, at Westsong - one of the few villages that the Countess herself claimed. Three days later, the autumn festival would begin. They would burn wooden carvings of falxes, carve gourds, sing, and dance until the last reveler collapsed in the street too full of joy to stay awake. It was her favorite time of the year, one of the few events that evoked an absolute and childish joy in her. She could hardly wait to be on the road at last.

  Chapter 1: SPARKS BEFORE STORMWINDS

  ONE

  Peace and prosperity. They turn us into children again. They let us greet the world with wide-eyed innocence. But the Falx comes for us all, in the end.

  “…And tonight,” said she, "The Falx comes to Westsong."

  Rising from her perch on the bed, Ylspeth embraced a bitter truth. Setting this village ablaze would evoke a kind of savage, red pleasure within her.

  Of course, there would be a reaction from her opposition at court, once word reached them as to what she'd done. What she'd allowed to happen here. They were carrion birds, every one of them. Dressed in finery and falsehood, these effete gossip-mongers would gleefully sink their talons into any opportunity if it offered them the chance to conjure or capitalize upon a rival's misfortune, no matter how diaphanous the pretext. They wouldn't be able to resist. They would call her decisions wasteful, a child's tantrum, an old woman's fear. Thorion County's courtiers never could make up their mind whether to think of her as a child or an old woman, which was very convenient for all concerned.

  Still, reaction at court be damned. Westsong was her village, they were her peasants, and their fate was in her hands. Hers alone. The only real question was whether or not those same peasants would be allowed to see another morning. That question, she thought, had at last been answered. At least they wouldn’t be cold tonight.

  Leaving the confines of her bedchamber behind (not that she could recall the last time she'd truly slept), she strode down the hall toward the top of the stairs for what she hoped would be the last time. The heels of her boots made hard, hollow, knocking sounds that stopped the murmured flow of conversation in the rooms below.

  "No," she said, "I think this will almost certainly be the last time, come to that." Her tone didn't suggest an epiphany or conclusion, but something rather like a rebuke, as if she were speaking to a much loved, but indolent child. "Whatever falls tonight, I don't expect I'll see another in this place."

  She stopped at the top of the oaken staircase and took a moment to comb her fingers through the soft honey and silver of her hair, before adjusting the single leather thong she’d chosen to bind it. She spared a last, fleeting thought toward the fit and security of her raiment. She wasn’t dressed for court, although she had many lovely things in this place which would have been suitable for such. Instead, she'd chosen dark-hued riding leathers, exquisitely crafted, yet deceptively simple. No, she certainly wasn’t arrayed as a noblewoman tonight.

  On her left hip, hung where an eating dagger might otherwise have ridden, was a gift from one of her retainers - one of Greggor’s personal recommendations, a young man-at-arms named Kaith. The son of a blacksmith, he'd crafted her a long, if plain-looking, hunting knife at some point over the past several days and presented it to her this very afternoon.

  The gesture had surprised her, though not because of the craftsmanship or boldness of the gift.

  "Excellency; no defense, no defender are perfect,” he'd said upon its presentation. “I would rather know that, should the world itself line up against us, you have more than your considerable will and authority to defend yourself with."

  It was shocking to hear a warrior of any rank or station, high or low-born, speak of preparation for failure. The norm, after all, was the seemingly endless, self-confident prattling of the career swordsman, crowing about his or her own prowess as the answer to all questions of strategy or safety.

  Humility is a virtue that many of my so-called Knights would have done well to practice.

  A dark smile played itself across her ageless face. Nodding to herself in a satisfied way, Ylspeth squared her shoulders and descended the stairs in even, deliberate strides. It was nearly time.

  The sight that met her as she came down gave her a shiver - a species of grim pleasure that bordered on pride. The combination entry and dining hall was filled with activity as all figures great and small knelt, sat, or stood in various states of readiness, packing and preparing, or standing on stolid watch at the enormous bay windows. Each hand and mind, if not every heart, was focused on the task of final preparation for tonight’s woeful work, just as she’d ordered. No hand was idle. No one sat listlessly without a task. Better still, not a single face bore a look of insubordination, mutiny, or hesitation. They were resigned and obedient. It would indeed be her play.

  There was work for the very young, and the very old as well. They were often a comfort to one another. Neither group would be appropriate for the delicate work of safely tying knots, taking inventory of small or easily damaged items, or the manufacture of wooden arrows. Rather than being made to sit in the corner like so much forgotten baggage waiting to be called upon, however, they stood in pairs, acting the part of watchmen from the safety of the manor house in which they were all gathered.

  Good, she thought, nodding to herself. Then all of my foes are outside of Westsong.

  Ylspeth took a moment to cast about. As she turned her head, the last spears of sunlight shone through a small western-facing window. Her cheek was brushed with autumn fire as the day’s last gleam smote her left eye. The ordinary magic of day’s end held for only a moment, but within that moment Greggor approached her.

  “Excellency…” Greggor spoke Ylspeth’s honorific with respect, yet with an easy familiarity. He stepped toward her, bowed very briefly from the waist, and stood at rough attention with his hands at his sides.

  “All appears to be in readiness.” Ylspeth concluded this pronouncement with a neutral tone that nonetheless made her words almost a question.

  Greggor nodded, his reddish-brown hair falling to either side of his head in waves. “Aye, right enough. While your Excellency was preparing, some of the men even went out to catch our runaways and drag them into the moat’s pit.” Greggor said this with surprising coolness. “They’re sleeping peacefully enough at the moment.” Gallows humor was not normally his bailiwick, but it seemed likely that everyone would be more than a trifle off this evening.

  “Well, Greggor, if we dally, they’ll be burned before we have time to hear them scream.” Had her voice ever sounded that cold to her own ears? She didn’t think so.

  “As you say, Excellency. You’ll want to address everyone, I’m certain, afore the fires are lit.”

  She allowed a smile to bloom, albeit briefly, as she regarded him.

  Greggor. Your mind - honestly, even your voice - never fails to comfort me. You, at least, I can always rely on.

  “Bring them outside,” Ylspeth said. “Call those standing sentry near the bridge, as well. Gather them all befor
e the manor. Let’s have done with it.”

  Greggor nodded, gave another little bow, and turned to the assemblage. He made quick work of motivating everyone toward the exit, save for the watchmen.

  The manor’s two floors held four southern-facing great windows, two per floor, stretching not quite from floor to ceiling. Greggor and Valgar had recommended teams of two per window: Old men and women, each with either a boy or girl of less than nine summers to stand watch with them. She had agreed readily enough. She had her mind focused on how to burn Westsong down with the greatest impact to those who stood between her and the County throne. The shutters had been thrown wide so that they could effectively see out into the village and orchard land beyond. They’d see and hear her address well enough from their positions.

  Ylspeth watched them file out, hearing Greggor summon the outliers from their posts. They were obviously frightened, obviously resigned to obey her command, but that, she thought, would not be enough. She had set them upon the road. She needed a way to turn their hearts and wills toward moving along that road. Their obedience and resignation would not see them through what was to come, and that simply wouldn't do.

  She'd given many public addresses and was reckoned to be very inspiring, at least according to the gentry. Many tournaments had been won in her name. Many songs and poems sung the praises of her gentility, her beauty, and her ability to spur the hearts of men and not a few women on to greatness. But all of those were in happier hours, in the sunlight, with an air of joy and festivity swaddling them in a light of glamour all their own.

  Today should have been such a day. Today should have been for cooking and baking, carving and playing. By now the entire village should have been about to sit down to a banquet, followed by singing, dancing, and drinking. By the first snows, the town would be full of a new crop of spring infants, waiting to greet the world after the snows melted. At sundown, she would have given a rousing speech to extol their year's worth of hard work and exhort them to even greater prosperity in the year to come.

  It was easy, she reflected, to inspire people who wanted to be inspired. Tonight’s work, however, was darksome. She was, after all, forcing them to destroy what they knew…in some cases all that they had ever known. Prosperity? There was no prosperity in ending all that you knew - not in any sense a normal person could hold on to.

  She watched as the last three or four people in line made their way toward the door. After a moment, she, too, made her way outside.

  ✽✽✽

  TWO

  She faced south, her eyes walking across the stone bridge which served as the town’s only entrance. As her vision widened to take in the scene in front of her, she saw that all the preparations she had ordered had been carried out with due diligence.

  She could smell the sour fumes from the oily concoction she’d created. Could see it lathered on all buildings in sight, save the manor, itself. The general goods store to the east of the bridge and the constabulary and gathering hall facing it from the west looked as if a giant had vomited upon them, covered as they were in a slick, shiny mixture of dung, thatch, and pitch. The same could be said for the rest of the towns remaining structures, though they were much smaller. Their odd coating faded into the general dim of the onrushing twilight.

  Beyond them, the small orchard town was surrounded by a deep, man-made cleft, where the ground had been stripped away. Normally this time of year, as the cold began to set in and the autumn storms turned from rain toward sleet and eventually snow, the moat would be full of debris from falling trees, leaves, and human waste. In the spring, as the snows melted and the creeks and rivers unfroze, there would be swiftly-flowing currents that carried fresh water into the town, and filth away from it. This had been one of the villages chiefest claims to fame - a small marvel of engineering which kept its citizens healthy and their gardens fertile. Now it was full of wood, thatch, old straw, animal dung, and the sadful forms of those once accounted as either their protectors or their neighbors.

  Ylspeth was satisfied. The village was ready for burning.

  Thirty-five souls stood near at hand, facing her - all that was left of the near seventy that had bided here just days ago. Every eye betrayed fear. Every eye sought hers with exhausted intention. They were looking for their next task and their Lady's will. They were greedy for any activity that would either prevent this sunset from being their last or stave off the inevitable for a few moments more.

  Not entirely certain what she was going to say, Ylspeth had just drawn breath to speak when she was interrupted.

  “Mi’Lady?” The woman’s voice was simultaneously piercing and guttural - music born of a lifetime among both the nobility and the peasantry.

  "Lady Marcza?" As the woman stepped forward to the front of the small gathering, Ylspeth realized she wished to approach and nodded. "Please join me."

  Marcza’s hair (somewhere between chestnut and black) seemed to shimmer as she bowed her head and continued walking toward Ylspeth.

  “Countess, the preparations you requested; everything is in readiness, and I trust to your satisfaction.” Speaking slightly louder than was strictly necessary, the woman moved herself in such a way as to force Ylspeth to turn with her if she wished not to be rude.

  She complied, uncertain as to what exactly was going on. Was Marcza attempting to get behind her?

  Surely not another traitor at this late hour…Ylspeth’s thoughts barely had time to bloom as Marcza continued her impromptu report.

  “We’ve gathered up every shield and taken an inventory of what weapons we were able to find or quickly fashion. All treasures worth taking from this place have either been buried appropriately or cataloged and packed for shipping. Several carts have been filled with possession and provision alike, and each have been appropriately hitched to either ox or horse teams. We await your word…” With that; the Lady Marcza ceased both her words and her walking. She laid her dim-hand along the hilt of her sword, steadying it against her left hip as she bowed from the waist.

  Ylspeth listened to this litany with another small surge of grim satisfaction. It wasn’t until Marcza ended her report and bowed that she realized what the lady had been attempting to tell her. In a flash; she understood, nodded, and said, “Thank you my Lady Marcza for ensuring that my will was carried out.” She then turned to the others and, with both hands, gestured them to join Marcza.

  Confused, they obeyed.

  As they moved, Ylspeth alighted on the place where they had but lately stood, facing crowd and manor house alike.

  Turning to face the countess, the crowd was now forced to drink in the backdrop of the village. They were thus greeted with the same vista of preparation and destruction that they had so assiduously tried to distract themselves from truly seeing.

  She caught Marcza’s eye and nodded to her. The woman only smiled, offered the briefest of nods, and turned her attention to the bridge and the forest beyond it.

  After a moment, Ylspeth spoke in a simple, even voice that carried well in the still air.

  “Tonight, Westsong will burn.”

  Everyone knew this, of course, but the reaction was still both emotional and instantaneous. There was a collective gasp, or perhaps a sigh. Tears stained many faces as the truth, at last, struck them. Inwardly, she nodded. Better by far that she pull the thorn. Best to rip out the unsteady foundation of blissful ignorance and heedless hope. She could build them up anew, but not atop a false foundation.

  She allowed the painful moment of realization to spin out but drew them on before they could work themselves into a grieving, wet stupor.

  “Sir Robis.” Ylspeth made her voice rise, shaping it toward the place where she saw the brown-haired orphan. “Come before me please.”

  “Countess Ylspeth…” Robis said, stepping to the fore with a nearly comical look of confusion upon his boyish face. “I…am no knight.” His tone as he stammered suggested, as surely you must know.

  Indeed, she did know. There
were no knights here. That was, in fact, the largest part of their problem when it came to defense. She gave the youth, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, an imperious look, before responding to his not-quite-question. He would be the first stone of their new foundation – the stone upon and beside which she would lay all the rest.

  "Perhaps you would consider doing as I have commanded if you're done educating me?" Her tone was a calculated one. She was being haughty, clearly, but she made certain to sound only mildly put out of countenance. He had, in fact, played his unknowing role flawlessly thus far.

  For his part, his face suddenly suffused with a deep and somehow childlike blush. His black eyes shining, Robis murmured assent and walked the rest of the way forward, bowing with eight feet between them, and then kneeled.

  “Robis, it is my understanding that it is yourself, and the Lady Marcza who organized and carried out my will in this place throughout the day. Is this so?”

  “Excellency; the credit belongs to far more than merely the Lady Marcza and myself.”

  She cut him off. “Yes, I’m certain that there were others whom you sent to handle this task or that. Who were your captains then?” She knew very well that everyone here had done their part, and that each of the fighting men and women left in Westsong had put their backs and set their minds toward the tasks at hand with due diligence. It was important that everyone else knew it, as well.

  “Your own men-at-arms Greggor and Valgar, my Lady…”

  “Lady Marcza, Greggor, Valgar?” She gestured to them each as she called their names, her tone of voice lilting into the unspoken question; would you come here, please?

  One by one they obliged, bowed, and each knelt in turn beside Robis.

  "As Robis was kind enough to point out, he is not a member of the gentry of Thorion County." As Ylspeth spoke, a tiny laugh sparked but sputtered out within the gathered crowd. She thought she might be able to fan that spark into something genuine…possibly even sustaining.