The Delving

by Aaron Bunce

  He’d heard stories about them, and how they would savage the trees, breaking branches and tearing away bark, until finally bringing down the whole tree. The stories told that the rootstag would then burry themselves in the roots, the thick, blood-like sap staining their fur red. The beasts changed, the poisonous sap driving them into a mating craze. They became wildly unpredictable, killing and consuming anything in their path, beast and plant alike. That madness continued until they finally mated – or died.

  Thorben puffed on his pipe, contemplating the rootstag’s fate until the cart followed a curve in the path and disappeared from sight. He continued forward, silently wondering what it would be like to have a singular desire burn so strongly that it washed away all other thoughts and needs – to be fully consumed by it. And then he silently decided that he didn’t ever want to.

  A building appeared to his right, the bluish green block and mortar covered in thick, curling trails of moss. Another building appeared to his left, this structure smaller and even more expertly blended into the surrounding forest. Yarborough materialized out of the rolling hills and lush forest before him, the roads and buildings nestled into the forest like budding clumps of stony mushrooms.

  Townsfolk clustered on corners or the steps of buildings, sharing in casual conversation, while a bard pontificated from a small pedestal at the very center of Merchant’s Way. The colorfully dressed man pointed at passersby from the base of the Bough – the colossal Stonewood tree looming above him, its thick branches climbing high above every other tree. The strange tree may have died ages before his ancestors settled there, but to Thorben, it was the town’s heart, a symbol of steadfast strength.

  He passed the bard, the young man’s falsetto voice spinning a tale he’d heard many times, but never truly fancied.

  “Peasant and pauper, merchant and fool, did bow to the shadow of Denoril’s king. A storm of madness and cruelty did reap, for fell the people from ocean to ocean in grief. Virtuous and true, for his heart truly knew – sired by the ram, good Gladeus saw what the gods deemed just…” the bard started anew, dancing out from under the stone tree and around Thorben.

  The young man sang and danced, hooking one lady by the arm and pulling her into a spin before skipping between two men. Thorben picked up his pace and veered towards the buildings on the right, desperately seeking to put distance between himself and the bard. He didn’t hate song, far from it. In fact, he’d been known to entertain a room from time to time with a passage or two of old Fanorian tunes, but he’d just watched the Council’s tax collectors pick through his cellar, claiming their food in the name of Gladeus and the other wealthy Council lords. He just wasn’t in the mood to revel in their “goodness” or just leadership.

  Thorben passed down several lanes, the bard’s song still audible behind him when another appeared down a wide road to his left. The other man, dressed in similar brightly colored clothing, danced and sung, pulling people into a group and encouraging them to join in. Although the group clogged the middle of the lane, Thorben could just make out a long line of wagons further down the road. A host of soldiers clustered protectively around them.

  Stopping involuntarily, a stab of anger clouded his thoughts. He knew what sat in the back of those wagons, and it felt no less like theft than if someone walked up to him at that very moment and took his coin purse. Not that anything would be in it, but that wasn’t his fault. Not this time.

  “Greedy bastards!” Thorben spat, and set off again. He struggled forward, the weight on his shoulders increasing with every step. The idea of bowing to a wealthy man for a handful of coin, after a council of wealthy men just plundered his cellar, was almost more than he could take…until he considered turning around, and returning home. What if the harvest wasn’t bountiful? How long before they were all hungry? How could he watch his children slowly starve?

  A sign hung above a doorway to a large, stone building across the lane to his left. “Lamtrop Woolery” was carved out of the rich, dark wood, the raised letters covered in gold filigree.

  The door pushed open easily, the barrel hinges turning with only a whisper of noise. He closed the door quietly behind him and looked around, exquisitely aware of every noise. Glimmering glass lanterns hung from the ceiling, suspended from heavy loops of some shiny metal he’d never seen before. Wide pools of yellow light fell over highly polished tables, exceptionally tailored clothing displayed on top of them. His gaze crept outward, where dark shelves stretched up to the high ceiling. Thick blankets, rugs, and tapestries filled the many cubbies.

  A young woman worked to his left, quietly and diligently sweeping, while a boy no older than his Dennah polished the dark, wood tables to his right. He watched them for a moment, before clearing his throat, hoping to catch their attention. Neither looked up, however.

  Taking a deep breath, Thorben walked forward under the glimmering lanterns and between the fancy clothes. He approached a long, high counter stretching across the back of the shop, shelves filling the wall behind it. Jars of exotic foods from every corner of Denoril filled the lower shelves, while candles, expensive oils, and rare herbs sat higher up.

  Thorben couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen so many fineries in one place. A floorboard creaked to his right, snapping his attention from the shiny jars and gilded boxes to find an incredibly short man standing at the end of the counter. A small door hung open behind him, an unusually burly figure wedged between the jambs.

  The small man paced quietly forward, almost disappearing behind the counter, before elevating suddenly, his feet thumping against some unseen stair or stool. Thorben watched the substantial, muscular figure untangle himself from the doorway and clear the counter to come and stand just to his side and slightly behind him. A silver-clad scabbard hung from his hip, catching the lantern light with a gleam.

  The small man cleared his throat impatiently, pulling Thorben’s attention reluctantly forward and away from the fighter. Thorben’s gaze drifted up the merchant’s silk and wool vest, the buttons and baubles each gleaming as if recently polished. The merchant had a long face, despite his short stature, dark eyes, and severe, almost angry slant to his bushy eyebrows.

  “Uh, greetings, sir. Might you be Lamtrop?” Thorben asked, stumbling as the big man shifted behind him.

  “I am Vernon Lamtrop, purveyor of the finest mercantile from every corner of Denoril. Are you here to buy…sir, my time is very limited,” the merchant replied, pausing to consider Thorben up and down.

  Thorben swallowed, biting back a sudden spike of anger. For such a small man, Lamtrop seemed surprisingly well versed at looking down his nose at people.

  Calm yourself! The man won’t lend you any coin if you lose your temper! he thought, sucking in a cleansing breath.

  “Well, no. I heard from other folk that you are in the habit of loaning a man coin, if he finds himself in need.” Thorben struggled to spit out the words, his mouth horribly dry.

  Lamtrop gave an abrupt nod, ducked down behind the counter, and reappeared a heartbeat later. The small man slapped a sizable leather-bound ledger down, peeled it open, and lifted a black feather quill before tapping it into an inkwell. He pulled a small coin sack out of his vest and plopped it down next to the ledger.

  “What is your name?” Lamtrop asked, his hand floating back over the parchment.

  “Thorben, sir. Thorben, son of Paul.”

  Lamtrop mumbled, the quill scratching loudly against the parchment.

  “Very well, I require interest paid on all loans – at the rate of two copper for each silver borrowed. Agreed?” the merchant asked, not looking up as he scratched away.

  “Yes, sir.” Thorben felt the anxiety lift a bit, the sum far lower than he feared.

  “And you understand that if you accept my coin, then you will be indebted to me, and will be required to pay back the sum borrowed along with the interest I demand, by say…the end of the first freeze next. Agreed?”

  Thorben nodded eagerly. Tha
t left him plenty of time to collect the coin needed.

  “We are agreeable. There is only one last step before I put coin into your hand. Please show me both of your wrists,” Lamtrop said, finally looking up from the ledger.

  “Huh?” Thorben stammered, his hand frozen in mid-reach for the sack of coin.

  “I like to know the character of those in my debt. It is a formality, I’m afraid. Just a quick glance and the coins are yours.”

  “I just need it to get by, through the cold season and to spring, when our fortunes can change. Maybe the field won’t flood next…” Thorben said, speaking faster, desperate to change the subject.

  Lamtrop nodded and Thorben felt the floor sag behind him, the fighter’s bulk crowding in. Strong hands snapped in before he could pull away and locked onto his wrists. His shirt’s old buttons put up almost no resistance as his sleeves pulled back. Thorben looked away as the pale, raised flesh of his brand appeared.

  “A branded man…you’re a brigand, sir,” Lamtrop said with a sneer, eyeing the mark of shame.

  “No sir,” he said, desperately shaking his head, “I never hurt anyone, you must understand–”

  “I think I understand well enough,” the merchant cut him off, his tone now clipped and cold. “But I am not without mercy. The coin can still be yours, with the proper surety.”

  “I don’t understand,” Thorben said, glancing quickly back at the bulky fighter. The man’s hands hung ready, as if prepared to grab him once again and pull off his arms.

  “A branded man is a brigand and without honor, and therefore, cannot be trusted. If you wish me to even consider putting my coin in your hands, then you need provide some surety that you will not simply take to foot and run. So, if you seek this,” Lamtrop said, nudging the coin bag, “you need to offer me more surety than your fool’s word. Interest paid is my reason for loaning you the coin, and the surety is your reason to repay.”

  “I have no livestock, sir, save for a few goats and sheep, but we need them for milk and wool, and they’re small and haven’t much meat on them. The Council’s taxmen have already stripped our cupboards bare, and so you see, I just need this coin to bolster the fall harvest and stock our cellar for the winter…to keep my young ones fed.”

  “I have watched the tax caravans weave their circuit of the provinces through the rule of two kings and the early thaws of our Council, but their burden of gold and food has grown in recent seasons. There is nobility in your plight, sir, I understand that. Others have brought me similar stories of need, on this very day, no less. But you must understand, I cannot simply give away my coin to dishonored men. The risk is too high.” Lamtrop’s features softened just a bit, his eyebrows losing their severe angle for a moment.

  “I could sign a note of promise,” Thorben offered, remembering the old man’s story.

  Lamtrop nodded, lifting the pen over the parchment once again. “Your home as surety, then? Or perhaps, a child? Say, the purse of fifty silver, with interest of ten silver paid by first freeze next? That will keep your family fed through the cold months and give you all spring next to earn it back.”

  “Ten silver? I thought you said two copper? Wait…my home? A child? And what, you would take them?” Thorben asked, taking an involuntary step back. The idea cut into him like a knife. He’d helped his father toil for thaws, clearing the timber and building the house. No, it wasn’t just a house…it was their home, the product of more than just his blood, sweat, and tears. It was all they had – the roof over their heads, but it was still just four walls and a roof. The idea of handing over one of his children to the merchant made his stomach lurch and the room spin. It was appalling, sickening.

  Then it struck him. He turned back to his left, and the young woman sweeping the floor, and back to his right, where the boy polished the fancy tables. Had she been someone’s wife, the boy someone’s child? He’d assumed that they were either the merchantman’s family, or perhaps in his employ, but now he found it far more likely that they were the child or lover of someone just like him.

  He spun back to the counter, his eyes dropping to the sack on the counter. The silver tributes bulged teasingly against the leather. It just sat there in the open, enough coin to alleviate most of their concerns. His hands involuntarily twitched forward.

  Lamtrop dropped a small hand onto the coin sack and pulled it back, before slowly pressing it against his chest. The fighter shifted, moving in behind Thorben. He could smell the man – a heavy combination of leather and musk.

  “I have had Rance here,” he said, pointing behind Thorben, “run down countless fools over the seasons. He dragged some back, beaten and bloodied, while he had to break others, and some, kill. Before you call me a monster, know that it is rightful, as decreed by the Council. According to our laws, if you are dishonored and fall into my debt, I can claim ownership of you, your wife, children, or home, as I see fit. It is surety after all. I don’t like tearing a child from their parents, or throwing a family out of their home, but these are the ugly necessities of life.”

  Thorben looked up to Vernon Lamtrop, his eyebrows once again severe, his scowl dark and ominous. The small man clutched the coin purse to his chest, the skin pulled tight around the bulging silver. This was the man’s true face. It was ugly – greed wearing a man’s skin.

  “No man ought lose a lover or child because of coin, nor should he lose his honor or freedom for doing what any other reasonable man would. Coin is just metal, while we are flesh and blood. This is wrong. All of it. Wrong,” he said, his voice rising.

  “And yet you shadowed my door, desperate for my coin. I deal with two kinds of people – those who seek fineries, and those with none. One is welcome, the other is not, especially branded fools,” Lamtrop spit back.

  “You take advantage of people when they are at their most desperate! Take from them what is not yours to claim,” Thorben retorted. “What kind of man are you?”

  “What kind of man am I?” Lamtrop asked, taken aback by the question. “I can trace my lineage back to the boats from Fanfir, the merchant trade running in our blood almost as long. Lamtrop is a noble name, my kin living with distinction and honor…not a branded fool in the whole lot. I cannot say any of that for you, pauper of a peasant’s son.”

  Thorben felt his neck grow hot, his hands clenching painfully into fists at his side. His family wasn’t wealthy…far from it, but they’d maintained a reputable name for generations, serving their kin and family in a respectable manner.

  “Better to be an honest pauper than a corrupt and soulless wretch, spitting fanciful tales to people on hard times. A false coin-counter trying to steal away a man’s own children…a…slave trader!” Thorben yelled, and when words couldn’t adequately convey his anger, he swept his hand over the counter next to the merchant, scattering the displayed goods onto the floor.

  “Remove this…fool from my shop, Rance. Beat him from my sight, and if he ever shows his fool-face on my property again, kill him!” Lamtrop spat, slamming the ledger closed and sweeping it off the counter.

  “Aye. I’ll be leaving, me lord,” Thorben said, half-bowing in mocking fashion. He swiveled and kicked the scattered goods at his feet for good measure before turning for the door, but a muscled arm dropped around his neck and pulled him into a suffocating embrace.

  “Get yer hands off of me!” he howled, punching and wrenching against Rance’s hold, but the larger man snapped around, driving an impossibly hard fist into his stomach.

  The world spun as Thorben’s breath was violently knocked away. He swung around and tried to hit his attacker, but Rance twisted out of reach, wrenching him over like a limp doll, and picking his feet completely off the ground.

  Thorben caught sight of the dark tables, the floor, and then a child’s face – locked in an expression somewhere between fear and shock. Then the door swung open. Rance wrenched him through the doorway, his knees and shins banging painfully in the process.

  Everything tilted, and t
hen he tumbled, sprawling painfully to the ground. Bright lights burst before his eyes and he rolled just as a boot swung in, catching him in the hip. Rance grunted and swung in again and again, his foot smashing Thorben in the stomach, and then his chest. He lifted his arms to protect his face, just as the boot swung in again, snapping his hands and head violently backwards.

  “Don’t come back here ever again, or next time, I start cutting,” Rance growled, dropping a foot on Thorben’s chest and pushing him over.

  Before he could collect himself and respond the hulking man walked back into the shop, the heavy door slamming shut behind him. Thorben grunted and wheezed, rolling over and pushing off the ground. He managed up and into a seated position, sharp pain flaring seemingly everywhere at once.

  With a glance back towards the door, Thorben stood and staggered down the road. He stopped and leaned against the building, sipping down shallow breaths, the pain still throbbing in his side. A horse nickered nearby. He didn’t need to look up to know that the street traffic had stopped, that the busy bodies were all watching him.

  Enjoy the show? he thought, bitterly. Thorben understood how the boroughs worked. The tale of how he was physically thrown out of Lamtrop’s Mercantile and soundly beaten in the lane would find its way to every table and fire, painting him as a would-be thief or drunken brigand. The stories would grow and change, building him into a fire-breathing beast, consuming children and wreaking havoc on farms and towns alike…that is, until the next scandal caught the town’s attention.

  “You can think what you like,” he said, grimacing and pushing away from the wall. “I know what and who I am.”

  Thorben cleared Lamtrop’s shop, the dark alley between buildings filled with a small twisting, curling tree. He’d barely made it two steps past the alley when someone spoke from the darkness. He wheeled about, just as a figure materialized from the shadow.

  “What they would say if they knew what you used to be, old friend. Oh, how they would admire you,” the man said.