by Paul Freeman
“Tell me.”
“She denounced Aliss as a witch. She said, it was your wife who had stolen her baby to use his blood to make potions, and feed the demons she summoned.”
“What nonsense is this?” Tomas could not believe his ears. It was true, Aliss had often made potions and elixirs, but from plants and herbs she collected in the forest, and only to help folk. People came from miles to visit her with their ailments. She was certainly not a witch, at least not one who would cause mischief. “Marjeri called her witch? Why would she even think such a thing, let alone voice it? Who was it she called when her other boy took ill last winter and almost coughed up a lung? Aliss cured the lad,” he spat out the last part.
“Her mind is addled with the loss of her child. She doesn’t know what she is saying.” Rorbert shrugged, half-heartedly defending the accuser.
“I spent the day searching for her child! Aliss aided in the birth of the babe!” Tomas could feel his anger building up. He picked up the crossbow he had left leaning against a blackened post.
“What are you going to do?” Rorbert asked, suddenly anxious.
“I’m going to get her back,” he answered and headed towards his stable. He kept two horses there, a luxury he could ill afford, but Aliss loved to go riding whenever she could and he could never deny her anything.
“Tomas… they were not gentle with her,” Rorbert called after him, dropping his head as he did so. “The magistrate’s eyes were filled with lust when he saw her.”
Tomas growled as hatred darkened his face. “Did not one among you try to help her?”
“I’m an old man, Tomas. The rest of the folk were scared. What could we do?”
Tomas spat his contempt into the scorched earth at his feet and strode to the stable. He led a dun-coloured gelding by the reins, and quickly tacked up his horse. “Which way did they go?” Tomas growled.
Rorbert pointed east away from the setting sun. “Have a care, Tomas. He has half a score of armed men with him. And he is the law in this part of the country. Do not throw your life away.”
Tomas scowled at the older man as he hauled himself into the saddle. “He has not the right,” he said before urging his mount forward.
“Aye, but he does,” Rorbert said sadly, as the sound of hoof-beats disappeared into the darkness.
Tomas was wary of pushing the horse too hard in the darkness. One misplaced foot, or a divot on the well travelled road and it would be disaster. He needed to catch the magistrate before he made it back to his keep or it would make rescuing Aliss so much harder, but a horse with a broken leg or neck would be of no use to him.
As it happened, he was hailed on the road far sooner than he had imagined. In his mind, the magistrate and his entourage were hurrying to get to the safety of his walls, eager to put to trial and pronounce judgement on his prisoner. In his mind, the magistrate was fleeing. Not so, the king’s official had taken a leisurely pace and had made camp by a small stream a short ride from the village.
“Halt and identify yourself!” Tomas was challenged as he approached the camp by two liveried guardsmen. Both wore shirts of chainmail and round helms with a long nose guard protecting the upper half of their face. Although both were armed with swords, neither had drawn their weapon.
“I wish to see the magistrate,” Tomas declared impatiently. In the distance he could see a small campfire glowing in the darkness. Several dark shapes huddled around the fire, but he could not identify anyone. The stream gurgled over stones behind them, as the fire crackled sending sparks into the air.
“And who might you be then?” one guard answered.
“The magistrate is busy,” the other said. His companion chuckled.
Just then a scream pierced the night. Instinctively, Tomas kicked his horse forward between the two guards, catching them unawares. He guided the mount towards the cry of distress as the two guards picked themselves up while shouting warnings to the camp. The shapes stirred from the around the campfire. The sound of steel being drawn from sheaths filled the air.
Tomas unslung the crossbow from his back and fumbled for a bolt from the quiver on his belt. Guards rushed forward from the darkness startling his horse. The beast reared up on its hind legs and threw Tomas from the saddle. He hit the dirt with a thud he felt travel up his spine to the base of his skull. The horse screeched and scrambled to safety as Tomas groaned on the ground. Rough hands hauled him to his feet.
“What is the meaning of this?” a voice bellowed. Tomas saw an older man approach. He wore a thunderous expression on his face, his expensive cloak fanned out behind him as he marched towards the blacksmith. “Who are you? And what in The Hag’s Dark Pit do you want?”
“The magistrate asked you a question. Answer his lordship!” Tomas felt the sting of a gauntleted fist connect with the side of his head. He would have fallen again if he had not been held between the two guards. “Valley scum,” the guard added pushing Tomas to the ground at the magistrate’s feet.
When he looked up it was not the magistrate he saw. Staring straight at him, through tear-filled eyes and bruised face, was Aliss. She had been tethered to a tree, her dress was ripped exposing one breast. Her lips trembled and she was shaking her head, mouthing the word, ‘no’. Tomas felt his rage burning inside him. He spat a stream of blood onto the ground and turned an icy glare towards the magistrate as he looked up at the king’s official. The magistrate took an involuntary step backwards from the intensity of the stare. “What,” he began levelly, “have you done to my wife?” Although the words were spoken softly, the threat lacing them was clear.
“The witch is your wife?” one of the guards chuckled. He wrenched Tomas back by the hair. “You’ll not satisfy her again now that she’s tasted a real man.”
“Aye, and more than one,” another guard added, laughing.
A smirk spread across the magistrate’s face. “She will face the flames before the week is out. Find another.” With the dismissive uttered, he turned his back on the stricken Tomas and walked away.
The blacksmith glanced over at his wife and saw the shame written plainly in her eyes and in every mark, every bruise on her face. She looked away unable to meet his eyes, knowing that he now knew. It broke his heart. Then the mist descended. Working as a blacksmith had developed his upper body muscles, giving him the strength of a horse, but Tomas had speed too, and surprise. The guard was still chuckling when Tomas leapt up and punched him so hard in the face that he fell to the ground and lay still. He grabbed the second by the throat, effortlessly throttling him and flinging him away where he heaved and gasped in an attempt to suck in air. Tomas followed through with a kick to the side of his head. It knocked the helmet of his head and sent him sprawling to the ground.
The magistrate whirled around at the commotion and fumbled for the sword at his belt. Tomas grabbed his wrist and squeezed until he heard a crack. The man who would judge his wife and brand her witch, screamed at the agony of his broken hand. The big blacksmith drew his head back before whipping it forward. His forehead connected with the magistrate’s face with a spray of blood. His legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground beside his guards.
“Tomas!” Aliss screamed. Pain exploded in his shoulder driving him to his knees. The rest of the magistrate’s compliment of guards were roused now. One was pointing a crossbow at Tomas. The blacksmith clawed at the bolt protruding from his back, but could not reach it.
“Run, Tomas! Please, just run!” Aliss screamed at him. The guards approached warily, swords drawn. Tomas pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the magistrate’s fallen sword as he did so. “Run!”
Tomas hefted the blade. He would give his life for his woman, but if he died, who then would be left to help her? “I’ll come for you,” he said. All he saw were her tears.
He turned then and ran for his horse, ignoring the burning pain in his back. Time ceased to exist for him then, as he fled into the darkness. If pursuit came he did not know, nor how he had lost them. He
kicked the horse and let it take him away, his mind clouded by the memory of his wife tied to a tree, surrounded by men who had abused her and named her witch. And he had left her with them. He had no idea when the darkness came and took him.
Lady Rosinnio: Wind Isle
Lady Rosinnio, wife of Jarl Crawulf, Lord of Wind Isle and all of the surrounding seas, stood stoically at the prow of the ship as it dipped and rose, seeming to smash into every wave while sending a jolt through the vessel. Beside her, her handmaiden knelt over the side, whimpering and retching into the grey and white swell beneath her. Rosinnio would not succumb. She who was of the Royal Sunsai household would not yield to anything so base as the Nort Sea. Even though her stomach was as turbulent as the waves beneath the hull of the wooden boat, she would not give in. Her heart leapt at every creak and groan of the thin planks beneath her feet, her mind raced as she envisaged a watery doom. Although land was still visible through mist and the spray of the sea, she knew it was too far to swim, even if she had the strength to fight the roiling water. She swallowed back a mouthful of burning bile, while her imagination made every motion of the sea a giant arm made of salty water reaching for her. How was it possible to undertake vast sea voyages in such flimsy crafts? she wondered, as behind her the crew busied themselves at oars or bailing water. There is more water inside the cursed boat than in the ocean! Even so, she would not give in to her fears and treacherous stomach. She did not notice her husband come up behind her, until his harsh, guttural voice sounded in her ear.
“How does it feel, my lady, to rule the waves?” he asked. She found it difficult to tell when he was jesting and when he was serious. It infuriated her, especially at a time when speaking a few simple words was a major chore.
“Am I queen of the sea?” she asked, her words impossibly lighter and more playful than she felt.
“Aye, girl, you will be queen of Nortland and all the seas around her, one day.”
“Jarl Crawulf, perhaps it would be best if some sentiments and aspirations were kept secreted for the time being,” the voice of her husband’s advisor slithered across the wind, making her wonder had they been uttered at all, or were they conjured from her imagination. She did not like the man. She did not like the way he appeared as if from nowhere. No sound or sight and then suddenly he was standing behind her, staring at her. Was it magic? She found herself wondering every time her thoughts turned to him.
“Nonsense, Brandlor. She is my wife and will be my queen. I will be my uncle’s successor. Have you not said so yourself?”
“Yes, my Jarl, but patience is….”
“…is for women and weak-willed men!” Crawulf cut him off.
“As you say, my Jarl.” The older man bowed, the wind whipping the thin wisps of white hair. As he rose, his eyes met Rosinnio’s. They were dark like the overhead sky, and hungry as the bottomless sea. They reminded her of a wolf stalking his prey. She looked away first, unable to shake the feeling of insects crawling all over her body. “A storm is coming.” He changed the subject with a glance towards dark clouds on the horizon.
“Aye,” Crawulf agreed, and turned away barking orders at the men as he walked between the rowing benches. A wide rectangular sail crept up the mast, the fabric had been dyed red, the colour of blood. It made Rosinnio shiver at the thought of the vessel creeping inland in some far-off place. Its dragon skull prow-head chasing away the spirits and gods of the poor folk the fearsome Nortmen would regularly raid. They were her people now.
With the wind filling their sail and the angry Baltagor, Lord of the Sea, leading their path, the ship easily reached port before the black rolling clouds and the oncoming storm. Lady Rosinnio had never felt such relief as the moment she took one delicate step onto the dock. Behind her, her handmaiden was all but carried ashore by a giant Nortman covered in furs and unkempt hair. She, however, would disembark without the aid of any man. She met the eyes of her husband as she did so, and the secret smile and wink he gave her filled her with pride. The depth of which took her by surprise. Did it matter to her that the barbarian warlord she now called husband was proud of her? It would seem so.
“My lady, we have a carriage waiting to return you to the castle,” a member of Crawulf’s household staff greeted her, an elderly man, with the leather bond of slavery wrapped around his neck. She nodded her thanks and took charge of her maidservant from the huge Nortman warrior, stifling a smile at the poor girl’s suffering and green complexion.
She sat into the back of the wooden cart and pulled a woollen blanket over her and the other girl. Her husband’s bondsman had called it a carriage, a far cry from the ornate transport made from polished wood and inlaid gold she was used to being ferried in as the daughter of an emperor.
The cart rocked and bounced over the uneven surface the Nortmen called a road, little more than a worn path through the countryside. Each jolt sent a wave of pain up Rosinnio’s spine. “I do not know which is worse, the sea or this gods cursed road,” she grumbled. Her maidservant was not listening. She leaned her head against the wall of the carriage, with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Rosinnio put her head back and tried to ignore the discomfort of the ride. She pulled the woollen blanket up over her shoulders, ignoring the musty smell. The wind picked up blowing rain in through the uncovered windows, landing little icy kisses on her exposed face. Even so, she allowed herself the briefest smile of self-satisfaction. She had not given in to the sea, not this time.
Her mind wandered back to another time, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She was a child, playing in one of the many courtyards throughout the palace. The sun beat down, warming her skin and touching her soul with tendrils of light and warmth. The air was filled with the musky scent of jasmine as she glided across the paving slabs, ducking behind fountains and flat-leafed plants, as she played some game or other conjured from her imagination. Then she heard voices.
“No, father, please don’t do this to me.” She heard her older sister’s voice. She could hear the tears in her words and knew she was crying.
“Enough! You are a daughter of the Sunsai Empire, Brioni. Your duty is to obey your emperor, and you will obey me!” It was rare for her to hear her father’s voice raised. He was usually such a soft-spoken, kindly man… at least to her. She knew, however, that it was wise to avoid him, or at least do his bidding, when dark clouds fouled his mood.
“You would send me to die in the Uncha Mort? Your own daughter,” Rosinnio’s sister cried.
“I am not sending you to die. It is time you were wed, and I have chosen a husband for you,” the emperor answered.
“It is a desert. They are savages. They live in tents and never stay in one place for more than a season. Do you expect me to live that way? I, a princess? Prince Egron of Tarnaia will…”
“Forget Prince Egron! And all of the others. You will marry Khan Bordon, and that is my final word!” From her hiding place, secreted behind a fountain depicting a boy playing a flute, Rosinnio flinched at the anger she heard coming from her father. Her own tears welled at her sister’s sobs of despair. The Uncha Mort was a desert of sand and hard-baked earth dried out under a relentless, burning sun, stretching for hundreds of leagues. Several nomadic tribes roamed there, carrying all they owned on the backs of herds of camels and horses. The desert was a buffer between the southernmost border of the Sunsai Empire and the wild lands beyond. Even as young as she was, Rosinnio could see the need to secure that border, and aligning with the strongest of the nomads was certainly one way of doing it, although she did not envy her sister and the life her father was forcing upon her.
Her eyes snapped open as the cart found a particularly deep pothole, the entire frame shuddered as the team of horses, under the encouragement of a cracking whip, dragged the vehicle onwards. She had not seen her sister since that day. In a cruel turn of events, her next eldest sister was married to Egron the following year. The Prince of Tarnaia did not seem to mind which princess was to be his bride, despite the love Brioni swore he
bore her.
To wither away beneath a scorching sun, or bear children with salt in their veins? If she had to choose which would it be? She pictured her father’s face, the strong jaw carpeted with an oiled and sculpted beard, his shoulder length hair, once jet black, now flecked with grey, slicked back from his forehead. His dark, piercing eyes, capable of exposing your soul, your every thought, with one withering look, stared back at her.
“I have defied the great Nort Sea and not been found wanting. Neither ice nor rock, fire nor wind shall break me. I am my father’s daughter,” she said in a low, even voice. Beside her, her servant stirred and suddenly wretched, spewing black bile onto the floor of the carriage.
Tomas: Woodvale Village
Tomas was falling, tumbling head-over-heels into darkness. When he stopped, Aliss was waiting for him, an uncertain smile twitching at the edges of her full lips. Crimson tears leaked from her eyes dripping onto his chest. He could feel the wetness of the blood pooling there. He reached out to catch the red tears on his finger, but when he touched her cheek the image faded. He called out, aching to see her face, to hear her voice again.
Back into the abyss he fell, falling through the ages until he saw a figure he recognised as himself, but it was not he, not Tomas the blacksmith. It was a younger version of himself, with a harder edge to his eyes, his mouth curled into a snarl. Aliss was there again. This time there was fear in her expression. Why was there fear in her eyes? His mind worked around the question, trying to comprehend; yet no understanding came. He took a step towards her, to reassure her. She turned away and fled, throwing cautious glances over her shoulder. When he tried to follow he could not. He realised he was weighed down and anchored to the ground by the weight of heavy armour covering his body. When he lifted his arm slowly and with great effort, a struggle even for the strength of a blacksmith, he saw a sword in his hand, the blade smeared with blood. Aliss stopped and doubled over, agony plainly written on her face. Her dress was stained red.