‘He is a savage! A barbarian, I tell you! No man of Artorus would send the head of a woman’s own son to his mother. It is the despicable act of a coward to do such a thing.’ Eburg’s mother was suddenly very animated.
‘Nevertheless, the boy was shown to be disloyal.’ Seneschal Carey, a silver-haired man of iron who had seen most things in his life, spoke in gravelly tones. ‘You may argue that their actions were overzealous or excessive, but the boy was caught dealing with the Arshumans. That is something we cannot dispute. This followed a period of defeat after defeat where the enemy seemed to be aware of our every move before we had even committed ourselves. It is a tragedy for your family, my Lady, but all we can do is pray to the Gods for wisdom and continue to serve Baron Esric as best we can, however much it sticks in the craw.’
‘Well, young Esric will learn. Eburgs always have their vengeance, however long it takes.’ Lady Eburg smacked her thin lips with relish.
‘What we are talking about here is nothing less than the loss of my baronetcy. Esric has that power, he could freely hand my lands over to whichever of his lackeys he chooses. My lands!’ Eburg thumped his hand on to the table with alacrity. He was as pale as a ghost, his eyes lined with red. ‘Enough, we are not here to discuss our greater problems; the ordering of my lands are the priority here. Jeffen, brief me on the state of the villages and the farms. Has there been any sedition in the country?’
His captain then embarked on a detailed, drawn-out account of the situation in the further-flung parts of his baronetcy. There had been discontented rumblings in many villages – the treachery against Baron Esric, a substandard harvest caused by heavy rain and some overzealous judgements by local magistrates had led to a lot of stored-up resentment and anger. Jeffen’s fear was how this might manifest itself.
‘A harsh winter and shortages of food could lead to revolt in the villages; starving people with nothing to lose can be as dangerous as a wounded boar.’
‘And what do you suggest we do about this problem?’
‘My Lord, our grain stores are low. Petition Baron Esric for a loan of grain from Sketta; let the villages know we are providing for them – the goodwill engendered alone should stave off any threat to us.’
Eburg snorted. ‘Brother Cornelius, the thoughts of the holy church, please.’
Cornelius stooped even lower.
‘The church will always put those with the least first. The prospect of any worshipper of the Divine Pantheon struggling for food this winter is not one of which the Gods would approve.’
‘Then let the church feed them.’ Eburg’s mother sounded shrill. ‘We are not begging Esric for charity, not after his crimes against us.’
‘Mother is right,’ Eburg said. ‘Have I not said we do not attract attention to ourselves at this time? I will get the magistrates and local nobility to pay a tithe to you, Cornelius; you will see that your worshippers are provided for.’
Captain Jeffen bowed silently, as did Cornelius. The matter was closed.
An hour or so passed with such discussions and there was a collective sigh of relief when Eburg seemed to wind things up. He took a long drink from his goblet.
‘Now, the petitions. I am in the mood to dispense some summary justice.’
‘Are you sure you or your mother do not need a rest before we proceed? ‘Carey sounded hopeful.
‘No, we are both fine. We will continue until it is dark. Arrange the petitions for us.’
And so the afternoon continued. Eburg mediated in several interminable disputes as to who owned this hedge or that hedge, this hen or that hen, who had property rights in this village, who owned the contracts to trade silks in the town, which wainwright should supply wagons to the militia and so forth. Carey and Jeffen advised where they could and Eburg insured Cornelius had a say on each case before he made his decision. Eburg’s mother also chipped in frequently. She obviously felt her advice was indispensable, and this indeed seemed to be the case, for Eburg rarely, if ever, went against her wishes.
Civil disputes over, it was time to move on to criminal matters, something Eburg was much more interested in. The brutal jailor would haul the poor alleged miscreant in front of the Baron; the seneschal would give a brief rundown of the facts of each case; the Baron would briefly peruse any written evidence; witnesses and the defendant would be questioned, and the Baron would pronounce sentence. In this manner justice was dispensed in a brutally efficient manner.
One twenty-two-year old man caught stealing apples from a farmer’s orchard – a night in the stocks; one eighteen-year-old man caught poaching the Baron’s deer (accomplices escaped) – death by hanging; one thirteen-year-old boy, part of a gang cutting purses in the market – ten lashes; a hired thug, age unknown, numerous crimes including murder, theft and assault – death by hanging; and one prostitute and her accomplice guilty of assaulting and robbing clients – ten lashes for her and a branding, thirty lashes for him. One man was found innocent, a businessman accused of arranging the murder of a family residing in a building he wished demolished and replaced with a property built for the more genteel. He was excused on condition of making an increased contribution to Eburg’s war chest.
‘One more case, my Lord,’ said Carey, ‘a slightly unusual one, a man from the Endless Marshes accused of the murder of a trader in Tath Wernig. Magistrate Onkean has written a deputation here and in here we have some evidence, medicines, poisons and herbs the man had brought to trade.’
‘Bring him in,’ sighed Eburg, picking up then speed-reading the deputation. He had a look at the basket. ‘All that is worth a fair bit, is it not?’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Carey. ‘If you have the right connections, this could set your average country merchant up prettily.’
‘Enough to kill for?’
‘Indeed, my Lord.’
The Baron switched his attention back to the missive in front of him as, under guard, the next man was brought in. After finishing his reading he looked up at the accused. His mouth opened slightly in shock.
In front of him stood a man, who from his woollen garments, ceremonial scarring and ruddy complexion was definitely not from the locality; that was no more than Eburg had expected. However, he had definitely come off the worst in some brawl or other. His right eye was ringed with yellow, puffy and partially closed; his nose had been broken; there was livid purple bruising on other parts of his face and neck, and his lip was swollen and split. Despite this, and the heavy shackles that he wore, he held himself proudly, tall and erect. There was always a certain bearing about the Marsh Men that disturbed him. Eburg addressed the jailor.
‘Cornock, how did he end up like this?’
‘Oh my Lord, we were cleaning out his cell (the Marsh Man snorted) when he made a break for it. It took three of us to restrain him, fought like one of Keth’s demons he did, a marsh demon if you like. My Lord, these folks are savage when roused, marked us all he did.’ Cornock disconsolately stroked a bruise on his jaw.
‘Very well, good work. It says here there was a skirmish over the river with two traders. One fell in and died ... My my, the information here is scant. Is the surviving trader here?’
‘No, my Lord,’ said Carey, ‘By all accounts he was a bit of a dubious character with an um... distrust of authority. I believe Onkean transcribes his statement in his deputation.’
‘He does. They argued over these trade goods and this man attacked them. There...’
‘I did not,’ Cygan said quietly.
Eburg looked at him. ‘You understand us marsh fellow? Good. That will make things easier. You, however, need to learn that you speak only when I say. I am Baron here and you are lower than the humblest peasant. Speak again and this jailor needs no excuse to strike you further.’
Cygan glowered at him. Evidently he had no idea of Eburg’s importance, the Baron thought. He rubbed his cheek with his hand.
‘The guards saw nothing, the magistrate saw nothing, our witness has disappeared... It is
one word against another; the whole thing is as murky as the depths of the Vinoyen. What do we know of the dead man?’
‘A trader of some repute,’ said Carey. ‘He had a broad network of associates and was pretty well spoken of; some of his methods were apparently dubious, but we could say that about any merchant that ever lived. His standing in Sketta was pretty high.’
‘Was it? Was it?’ Eburg suddenly felt tired. ‘That complicates things. It says here Marsh Man that you have something to tell us, something you feel is important. Speak.’
‘I can talk now then?’ Cygan’s tone was sardonic.
‘Don’t be impertinent! Did I not just say so?’
‘With you people, what is said seems to rarely match what is meant. It is not like that where I live – we are plain-speaking folk and have no need to cloak our intentions behind falsehoods and duplicity.’
‘Do not try my patience, marsh savage. If you are as plain speaking as you say, then tell us why you came here.’
‘Very well. I was sent here by my Elder. Our lands are threatened by a danger unleashed by outsiders. We do not know who these outsiders are or why they have done what they have; I have come here to try to find out.’
‘What sort of danger?’
‘An ancient race,’ – Cygan was having difficulty speaking through his busted lip – ‘one that has been confined to a distant lake for aeons but which now has started to spread, to attack our people. They are aquatic, they hide in water and they attack at night. They are almost impossible to stop. And once they have destroyed us they will come for you, your lands being nearest to ours. And that is not all. They are led by Ventekuu, the Great Worm; I know for I have seen it myself. It could swallow this town whole such is its colossal size. My advice to you is to find out who has called this creature from its home so that it can be stopped before it is too late for us all. I am here to warn you; you would do well to heed my words.’
Eburg looked grave. He appeared to be carefully weighing up what this strange man was saying. His reverie, though, was broken by the contemptuous snort of his mother.
‘Superstitious claptrap! Why are we even countenancing the words of this foul pagan? His very sight, his very smell, is an assault on my most delicate sensibilities. Come, I hunger for my dinner. Let us swiftly dispense justice on this savage and get the kitchens to attend to us.’
‘Wise words, my Lady.’ Cornelius was bowing so low his head was almost at the level of his knees. ‘Baron, this creature is not one that recognises the Divine Pantheon, and as such our normal rules of justice do not apply. Pagans who murder those blessed by our Gods deserve only one type of justice. This creature, remember, does not even have a soul.’
Eburg twiddled his thumbs. ‘Carey?’
‘Personally, my Lord, I feel that, while his warnings sound fanciful, we cannot wilfully ignore them. I would put him back in his cell and get Calvannen’s advice on the matter. That would help us gain favour with him and, if anything were to happen to us on our lands as this man warns, then it cannot be said we ignored advice given freely.’
‘And yet I cannot be seen to favour the rantings of a Marsh Man over one of our own people.’ Eburg indicated the basket and looked at Cygan. ‘What was the purpose of bringing this with you?’
‘We understood that you would not listen to me alone. This gesture, most of our remaining stock, was meant to be a gesture of goodwill and to show how important your response is to us. Hopefully, this Calvannen fellow will have the sense to respond. By the way, there was much more in that basket when I left my village.’
Lady Eburg was piqued. ‘The arrogance of the creature! To presume that you are incapable of understanding the situation for yourself!’ She called over a servant. ‘Get the kitchens moving, I require sustenance. Gentleman, I am leaving now; I will promenade in the courtyard and breathe some unpolluted air.’
With much kerfuffle and aided by a handmaiden Lady Eburg left the room. Her son stood, too, and stretched his back and legs.
‘These trade goods are now the property of the baronetcy. I will write to Onkean to enquire as to the missing items. Captain Jeffen, double the river patrols; we have to at least give the impression of responding to this man’s warnings. As to my decision on this case...’ He returned to his seat, his face ashen grey.
‘Mother is right as always, a pagan barbarian cannot stroll in and slaughter a trader of repute in Sketta and escape unpunished.’
‘But we have no evidence that that was what he did.’ Carey spoke gravely.
‘We do, Carey – it is written down here from a witness who worships the divine Artorus. We have two executions to arrange already; it is time to make it three. The prisoner is to be hanged; there is nothing better to improve the morale of the townsfolk than a multiple execution. Arrange for the three of them to be hung in the square; tell the market traders they can trade that day also.’
Cygan fought against his chains. ‘You are a fool! You have to listen! The Malaac are coming for you, they eat those they kill... You will all be next, all of you!’
‘Take him away, Cornock.’ Eburg sighed wearily. ‘Do not harm the prisoner. The execution of an exotic will draw a crowd; he needs to be fit enough to resist and struggle on the way to the gallows.’
The jailor bowed and, aided by two guards, led the Marsh Man away.
Eburg got up and made to leave. ‘Jeffen, how long before the executions can proceed?’
‘Two days, my Lord. They will be dancing on a rope at noon the day after next.’
‘Good. Come with me, Jeffen. I think I will join Mother in her promenade.’
The two men left the room, leaving Carey all alone. He looked around to check he wasn’t being watched, then hastily put pen to parchment and scribbled a brief letter. After folding it, he placed the note in a pouch at his waist and also left the room.
Sketta was less than ten miles from Eburg. Unlike the smaller town on the river, it was located inland, away from the marshier climes. Having said that, many years of local peat diggings had created many quiet water-filled channels that both surrounded and ran through the bustling, picturesque town. It was a town the Arshumans had never come close to capturing in the last ten years and so its populace lacked the fearfulness of the other towns of the Seven Rivers. There was a casual relaxed confidence to the place. Many exiled nobles lived there including Baron Esric Calvannen, Chief Prosecutor of the War in the South.
The town’s manor house was a long, grand affair, rendered in stone, itself a rarity in these parts. Its banqueting hall was vast, its floor covered in cool grey flagstones covered by thick, luxurious red carpet. From both flanking galleries hung many lavishly woven tapestries depicting many of the wars and battles that had shaped both the area and its peoples over the centuries. The galleries were full of musicians playing to entertain the elegantly clad dancers below. It was a ball, held ostensibly to herald the end of autumn, but it was just as much to celebrate the Baron’s return and the end of the fighting season as anything else. Esric himself sat watching the dancers; he himself had not danced here for many years. Clad in a velvet tunic and black leather breeches, he watched the elegantly swaying participants with an air of studied nonchalance.
His sisters were as usual the main attraction. There was but a year between them; they were as close to being twins as it was possible to be, hair black as ink cascading over shoulders white as marble – the very epitome of Tanarese beauty. It was Esric’s job to marry them off, but he was fond of them both and there were no outstanding candidates for their hands, so he had let the matter rest. His time was filled with far more pressing matters, after all. They had spent most of the evening dancing with the knights, who were always in demand on occasions like these. When they weren’t dancing they seemed to be enjoying the company of Mikel, the mage, who was obviously quite the raconteur; Esric remembered the warning he was given about his womanising and allowed himself a wry smile.
A servant approached him and whispered
something quietly in his ear. He nodded at the man, made his excuses and followed him out of the room. From there it was through a dimly lit corridor, down a flight of stairs and into a small windowless anteroom lit by a single sputtering torch. There was a man waiting there seated quietly on a bench. The servant left the two of them alone and Esric, after blinking back a tear, caused by the smoke, spoke hoarsely.
‘You have news for me? Baron Garal cited pressing domestic matters as his reason for not attending tonight.’
The man was hooded and his features could be barely seen in the semi-darkness. ‘Arshuman money is changing hands in the east. I have seen Garal’s seneschal’s picked men doing deals in dark alleys. I cannot confirm that he is definitely in the pay of the enemy; rather, I feel he is keeping in the good graces of both sides, waiting to see in whose favour the wind blows. It is not my place to advise you, my Lord, but keep him away from your most private counsels. He is also corresponding with Eburg. Give me some time and I should be able to intercept his messengers and get my hands on one of these letters. And there is another thing.’
Esric raised an eyebrow. ‘And that is?’
‘Strange things are happening on Garal’s southern borders. People are moving north, fleeing their homes. There have been dark rumours of attacks by strange creatures in the dead of night. Garal dismisses these tales as the ramblings of superstitious peasants, but I have spoken with some of them, solid men, farmers, and when they say they have seen demons, half-men covered in scales and slime rising from the river, and they say it without blanching, then I tend to think investigation is necessary at the very least.’
The Forgotten War Page 69