by Tim Stead
I write this not as law, but as a point from which we may begin to build a better life for all, and I hope that one day I, or my children, or my children’s children may see it come to pass.
Written by Johan Paritti
Clerk and Free citizen of Afael
11 Berrit Bay
Bram Calpot, mayor of Berrit Bay, ran his fat fingers through his thinning hair and shook his head.
“Not like that, boy,” he said, taking the rope from his grandson’s hands and throwing a hitch round the bollard almost too fast for the eye to follow. “See?”
“No,” the boy said. “You do it too fast.”
“Beats me,” Bram said, tying the hitch again with exaggerated hands. “How you ever got to be thirteen in Berrit Bay without knowing knots. How’re you going to make a living if you can’t tie up a boat?”
The boy looked even more sullen, if that were possible. “Don’t want to fish,” he said.
“What are you going to do in Berrit Bay if you don’t fish?” Bram asked.
“Leave?”
Bram had to admire the child’s persistence, and it was Bram’s own fault. The boy wanted to be a soldier. Why? Because Bram had told him a lot of tales about his own grandfather sitting down to dinner with the heroes of the Great War; General Cain Arbak and Captain Tilian Henn. The two of them had sat at table with the men of the bay after the battle on the western road. Those men had saved the bay, and he couldn’t blame the boy for wanting to be like them. He tried again.
“You think soldiers don’t need knots? How you plan on tying up your horse?”
“Gonna be infantry,” the boy countered.
Bram sighed. He pointed at the bollard. “Try it again,” he said.
Amazingly the boy threw a perfect hitch. Bram tugged at the tail of the rope and the knot held.
“Good,” he said. “Now how about a bowline?”
The boy took the rope and stared at it.
“The eel swims out of the cave, round the kelp and back into the cave again,” Bram said.
The boy looked scornful. “If I tie a bowline can I go?” he asked.
Bram looked up at the sky. It would be time for the midday soon, and frankly he was enjoying this about as much as the boy.
“Do it twice and you can go,” he said.
The boy twisted the rope, making a small loop. He passed the head through the hole, round the tail and back again. He pulled it tight. “There,” he said.
“If you know how to do it, why pretend not?”
“I get too good you’ll send me out on a boat,” the boy said.
There was no denying it. The boy wasn’t stupid.
“Do it again,” Bram said.
The boy untied the rope and tied it quickly again without error. So the boy did know his knots, or at least the basic ones.
“Before you go, Camren, tell me why you hate fishing. I fished all my life and it ain’t hurt me none.”
“Matter of opinion,” the boy said.
Bram resisted the urge to cuff the boy for his cheek. He supposed Camren had a point. Bram’s hands were calloused and red from salt-soaked ropes. His wrists bore scars where he’d wrapped the lines round them in rough weather.
“It’s a hard life, I’ll give you that,” he said. “But soldiering’s no easy walk. More likely to get killed, and that’s a fact.”
“It’s the smell,” Camren said. “Can’t stand the smell of fish.”
“There’s worse smells than fish, boy, and fish means food. You remember that. Now run along and keep an ear open for your ma. Midday’s not far off.”
The boy grinned and ran. He’d find friends in the square and play at being heroes with wooden swords and painless injuries. Bram had never fought, saving a few bouts of fisticuffs at the tavern when he was young, but he’d met men who had, and they didn’t talk of glamour and glory. If you listened to them war was all hard slog and pain, a lot of bleeding and dying and none of it for more than a few coins a day.
He untied the knots the boy had tied and slung the ropes over a shoulder. Bram’s days of hauling nets were past, but he was still a big man. Grey he might be, and his back hurt in the winter, but his arms were thick with muscle, and he was more diminished in speed than strength.
As he walked towards his home, he saw men running. One of them saw him and rushed towards him, face full of desperation.
“Bram, there’s soldiers coming down the valley. Dozens of ‘em!”
Bram Calpot wasn’t unduly worried. Since the Great War Berrit Bay had built a wall round its town. It wasn’t much, and used the wire baskets Cain Arbak had invented filled with shingle from the beach, but it was ten feet high and that was enough to deter most folk. The wall had three gates – east, north and west. It was apparent that the threat was north.
Bram strode up the muddy street. As mayor it was his responsibility to meet any strangers and Berrit Bay wasn’t so far off the beaten track that he hadn’t heard that there was trouble brewing.
He climbed the steps by the gate and saw the riders that had so panicked his people. There were about twenty of them, mounted, and making their lazy way down the road towards him. They looked confident, but this wasn’t an attack. There were too few of them.
“Call the militia,” he said.
It was another thing that had happened after the war. With walls they had to have men to keep the gates, and so they hired twenty men to be full-time soldiers and drummed up another fifty hunters and harpooners to stand with them if needed.
Camren appeared at his side. The boy looked excited to see real soldiers.
“Fetch me my hammer, boy,” Bram said.
The boy fidgeted. He clearly didn’t want to go.
“Now!” Bram shouted. The boy flinched, but ran off at once in the direction of Bram’s cottage.
The soldiers came closer, close enough now to see their colours, and Bram recognised them. These men were from the Duke of Bas Erinor’s regiment. That was a dilemma. The mayor knew that the rightful duke was now the great Cain Arbak, immortal Farheim and saviour of Berrit Bay. He also knew that Alwain still pretended to the title, and Alwain had been with his army when the change came.
The militia began to arrive. They didn’t have uniforms, but they did have weapons. Twenty bows and twenty spears with a handful of swords and clubs. It was hardly a formidable force.
“You down there,” he called to the men on the gate. “Open it when I say and close it again if I signal it.”
A minute later the mounted party stopped in front of the gate. One of them stood up in his stirrups and looked at the men on the wall.
“Open up!” he shouted.
“Who says?” Bram countered.
Camren arrived back with the hammer, and Bram took it. The thing was hardly a war hammer, but it was fifteen pounds of blunt steel with a long handle.
“Lieutenant Jorgal, Duke of Bas Erinor’s own,” the horsemen said.
“Serving who?”
“The fucking duke, you half-wit.”
Bram’s temper flared, but he sucked in a breath and replied in as sweet a voice as he could manage.
“Which fucking duke? Alwain or Arbak?”
“Alwain. Now open the gate.”
It was a delicate moment. If Bram said no then these men might ride away, but chances were they’d come back with two hundred friends and then there would be bloodshed and Berrit Bay might be broken for ever. He didn’t want that.
“What do you want with us?” he demanded.
“Supplies.”
“You have no wagons.”
“We’ll use yours.”
Thieves, then. Bram knew how to deal with thieves.
“Open the gate,” he said.
Below him the gate squealed on its hinges and the horsemen spurred their mounts forward, coming into the open space behind the walls. It didn’t take a moment for the lieutenant to see his mistake. The bowmen were on the walls. The spearmen were in the narrow alleys that
led away. It was as neat a trap as the Berrits could make it.
Bram walked down the steps from the walls and stood in front of the officer’s horse.
“You want to steal our food?” he asked. “Because, you see, it’s a bad time of year. We’re low, and the harvest won’t be in for a couple of months.
Jorgal looked around him, but the arrogance of a young, professional soldier faced with ragged amateurs was hard to underestimate.
“We’ll take any grain you have,” he said. “Any vegetables and meat. This is a fishing village. You’ll get by.”
Bram knew what ‘getting by’ meant. Children and old folk would die. It would take years for the town to recover. If there was a poor harvest next year, they might not make it at all.
“I don’t think we can spare it,” he said.
Jorgal spurred his horse forwards, drawing his blade. Bram had half expected this. It was why he was standing close to the horse. It didn’t do to let a horse get up to speed. The animals were too heavy to stop once they got going.
He swung his hammer in a vicious arc, striking the horse just above the eyes as he stepped aside. There was an unpleasant crack as the bone failed and the horse dropped, dead before it hit the ground. Jorgal’s leg was trapped as it went down.
Bram signalled, and the town gates were closed. Now there was nothing for it but to fight. Fortunately, the Berrit Bay militia saw it the same way, and even before the soldiers could draw their swords the arrows flew.
A few of the soldiers charged the alleys leading away from the square, but fell to the spears waiting for them. A second and third volley finished it.
Bram walked forwards and looked down at Lieutenant Jorgal. The man was still trying to pull his leg out from under his dead horse. He saw Bram coming.
“You’ll pay for this,” he said. “The duke will have your heads.”
“But you won’t be here to see it,” Bram said. He swung his hammer again and the blow smashed through the arm Jorgal threw up to defend himself and crushed his skull. The soldier was right, though. Killing these men invited disaster, and a more immediate one than starvation. If Alwain discovered what they’d done he’d burn the town and kill every man, woman and child.
“We’ve got to clean this up fast,” he said. “Make the boats ready. We have to dump this lot at sea, and weigh them down.”
“Can we at least keep the weapons?” one of the militia asked.
Bram thought about that. One item recognised would be death for all of them, but there was a way.
“Bring them down to the dock,” he said. “We’ll see.”
“The horses?”
Bram shook his head. Most of the beasts were still alive, and they were fine animals, a great asset to the town, but the same logic applied. If Alwain’s men came here and found a horse they recognised they’d kill everyone.
“Kill ‘em all. Put ‘em in the boats.”
It took hours. It was hard to imagine Alwain’s great army passing by the head of the valley when the gate square was stained with blood and men strained to lift the corpses of men and beasts into the town’s fleet of fishing boats. Men watched anxiously on the gates, but Bram was certain it would be hours before the foraging party was missed and more men were sent. He already had his story prepared, and the second part of his plan.
He told the fishermen to go no more than half an hour from shore and come back again, and they did. The boats were stained with blood, but what man could tell the red blood of a fish from that of a horse or soldier?
He had them load the boats again. This time with the spoils of their victory – the swords and armour of Alwain’s slain troops – and with the town’s remaining supplies of grain and vegetables. Those would be needed.
“What are we doing, Bram?” one of the captains asked.
“They’ll come again,” Bram said. “They’ll come for answers and they’ll come for food. Even if we sell them the lie, they’ll strip Berrit Bay. You go out and you fish like it was a regular day, but stay out there three days, and don’t come back to shore unless you see a red flag on the dock. Understand?”
The fisherman nodded. “Or smoke,” he said. “If they burn the town, I’ll see smoke.”
“You will,” Bram agreed.
The boats hoisted sail and dipped their oars and put out into the bay once more. As Bram watched them go his son, Ivo, appeared at his side.
“Thought you’d be on a boat,” Bram said.
Ivo was a younger version of his father, a thatch of blond hair, sharp blue eyes and a body thick with muscle.
“You’re a smart man, Da,” he said. “But you ain’t our lord. What’s your plan?”
“Plain enough by now, I should think.”
“You got a story for when they come back?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“Deserters,” Bram said. “We saw ‘em ride down the valley and turn east, riding hard for the coast road. I ain’t gonna say deserters, I’ll leave that for them to figure out. You leave the talking to me.”
“They’ll believe that?”
“If you were a fighting man who’d you pick to follow? Cain Arbak or Alwain?”
“Alwain’s got an army.”
“Not if they keep deserting like this.”
“But…” Ivo grinned. “You’re a devious bastard, Da.”
“My thanks. Now get men together and clean up the square by the gate. Plenty of fresh sand.”
Ivo hurried off, still smiling. Bram wondered if Alwain’s men would buy his tale. Someone would have to believe that Jorgal would switch sides, and that might not happen. Perhaps it would have been smarter to leave Jorgal and his horse out in the valley, make Alwain think the men had killed their officer and run. But then he’d have had to kill horse and man a different way, and he’d not thought of it soon enough.
Well, this way would have to do.
*
It was close to sunset when they came. Bram was up on the walls again and saw them coming by their dust. They came quickly, and soon enough he could count them. About seventy, give or take, and he could see bows, lances – these men meant business.
He waited until the men drew up before the gate.
“Good day to you, my lords,” he called down. “What business have you at Berrit Bay?”
The officer in charge was examining the walls. Bram guessed he was estimating if he had enough men to take the place by force.
“I am Major Antalis, Duke Alwain’s regiment. We sent a troop down here this morning to gather supplies. What became of them?”
Bram scratched his head.
“We’ve not seen foragers,” he said. “But a troop did ride by this midday heading for the east. If it’s supplies you want, we’ll share what little we have with you, though we ain’t a prosperous town.” He called down and the gate was opened. The Major rode in with about twenty men, but the bulk of his force remained outside. He was a more careful man than the late Lieutenant Jorgal. The Major dismounted.
“Rode east, you say?”
“I did. We thought they were coming here, but they turned less than half a mile from our gates and rode away.”
The officer climbed the steps and stood on the wall. He looked east. The road was hard and well used, so there would be no tracks to prove it either way, and they’d have been long gone by now. Antalis turned his eye on the town, but the square had been scrubbed. There was no sign that anything untoward had ever passed there.
“Your name?” he demanded.
“Bram Calpot, mayor of the bay.”
Antalis studied him. “I’d like to believe you, Mayor Calpot. Jorgal was an arrogant prick, but he was no traitor.”
Bram shrugged. “One man’s traitor…?”
The major nodded. “Maybe.” He turned to his men. “I want this town searched,” he said. “Take half their food, load it onto wagons and get it done by full dark. If you see any sign of Jorgal or his men come to me at once.” The twenty men
in the square split into pairs and began to ransack the town with brutal efficiency.
Bram waited. There was nothing else he could do now.
“You have a tavern?” the major asked.
“We’ve three,” Bram told him.
“But there’s one you prefer,” Antalis said. “Take me there.”
“As you wish.”
The major walked beside him, two soldiers a pace behind them both. The tavern was only a street away from the gate. It was hardly luxurious, but The Ghost served a decent ale and it was clean. The major looked up at the sign. It depicted a man in green carrying a longbow.
“Ghost?”
“Henn’s Ghosts, my lord. That’s what they called them. They defeated a force of Seth Yarra five times their size on the western road. Saved the bay.”
“Henn was Arbak’s man,” Antalis said. “So you’d be kindly disposed to Cain Arbak.”
“We’re plain folk, my lord,” Bram said, knowing he was on thin ice here. “We don’t get to choose sides. Best not to fight the tide, if you take my meaning. Besides, Henn was Hebbard’s captain. Different regiment.”
“Was he?”
They came to the tavern and entered. Antalis slumped into a chair and put his feet on a table while Bram fetched ale. The two soldiers flanked the door and stared at him. He put a mug in front of the officer and sat down opposite with one of his own. For a moment it looked as though Antalis would object to this familiarity, but he shrugged and tasted the ale.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Best in town,” Bram said.
“We’ll take a barrel of it.”
They sat in silence for a while. Antalis leaned back and closed his eyes.
“You know you’ve stopped the army?” he asked. Bram shook his head, sipped his ale. “Alwain’s stopped while we investigate. Should thank you really. It gives us a chance to rest.”
“Perhaps you should stay the night. There are comfortable beds in the tavern.”
Antalis laughed. “No chance,” he said. “Alwain expects us to march on in the morning and so I have to report before he takes to his bed. We’ll leave as soon as we have what we came for. Can’t say I’m looking forwards to it.”