by Eric Lewis
“Fareyawell,” he called with a wave as they thrashed. “Give my regards to the king!”
* * *
“It’s the same ever’where,” grumbled Bedegar between gulps of watery beer. “I’m too old to bother with o’course, but recruiters got my nephew last season. No idea where he is now.” The white-haired man sighed. “You gave ’em hells today though.” A rumble of approval passed through the taproom, and a few congratulatory hands patted Ulnoth’s shoulder.
“Sure, ’til next time,” he said, fingering the hole that’d been ripped in his tunic at some point. “When’ll it end, Bed? King, queen, one country or two, nobody gives a good godsdamn. Just flip a coin or play a round of castra and be done with it.”
“Nah, that’d make too much sense,” replied Bed.
“And now that all them fool volunteers got themselves killed, the lords steal us farmers from the land to keep at it. Who’s gonna feed their fat asses if they turn us to spear fodder? It ain’t a game nummore, Bed – I got mouths to feed!”
“I know, I know,” said Bedegar. “Speaking o’ which, how are they?”
Ulnoth grinned in spite of his commitment to maintaining a bad mood. “Well, Lisette’s three. That’s pretty much her story. Chattering little ball of mostly hair, golden like her mother’s. Taken to giving names to all our animals. And the trees. And the farm tools….”
Bedegar chuckled. “Is that so? And Athewen?”
“Makes this whole ruin of a world bearable. They both do. It’s a hard duty though, keeping ’em safe in it.”
Bed raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you seek out a lighter duty with…?”
“Don’t,” Ulnoth replied with a sharp frown.
The old man shrugged. “You’re a lucky one, Ulnoth, despite everything.”
“I am. Not that you’d know it by the surroundings.” That was true enough. Rationing made all but the barest food and drink illegal, thus the room they sat in was literally underground, in the cellar of a barn owned by some far-off bank. It was a bit of an open secret in the village of Plisten, far beneath the gaze of any heighty lords more concerned with the war between Engwara and Pharamund than with bootlegging peasants.
“You takes your comforts wheresoe’er you may, my boy,” said Bed, “as I often reminded your da, gods rest ’im. Now drink up and soon you’ll be addled enough to believe that cack from the Polytheon about a just reward in the next life.”
Ulnoth took his drink, then set the cup down hard. “Can’t wait that long, Bed.” His eyes drifted past the crowd and the smoke, and the corner of his mouth turned up just a tick. “Speaking of comforts….”
“Huh, don’t need to guess what you’re spyin’ at. You’re playing a dangerous game there, son. I told you once—”
“I know, and I said don’t.”
“I’ll leave ya to ’er then.” Bed lifted his cup in mock salute as his young friend stood. “Gods light yer path.”
“Uh-huh, and yours,” Ulnoth muttered, his thoughts already miles away.
* * *
An hour later Ulnoth lay exhausted on a straw cot, drowning in Sally’s dark tresses. She rolled over and rested a pouty chin on Ulnoth’s chest.
“How long are you in town this time?”
“Mmm, who cares?”
“C’mon, how long?”
Ulnoth sighed. “Depends on how hard the grain factor wants to haggle. I can’t take another price hit like last year. War’s supposed to make grain more expensive, but they keep coming up with excuses….” He shrugged. “I’m here as long as I need to be.”
“Well that’s fine by me,” Sally said, tugging playfully on the curls of his short auburn beard. “I’m feeling thoroughly underfucked these days.”
“Flattered, but you must know I ain’t the only man in the county.”
“Starting to seem that way. I heard about your little adventure with the recruiters.”
Ulnoth snorted. “Aye, I’m a real hero. What other news of the great patriotic struggle? Are we bending knee to king or queen this week?”
“Umm, king still. I think. Pharamund’s put a Marcher lord in charge as the new marshal, real bloody-minded.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“This one’s different,” Sally said, suddenly serious. “Courier rode through yesterday, said he was at Murento. The queen’s army put it under siege, and after a while they yielded.”
“That’s nothing new either – cities change hands with the winds.”
“Not this time. The marshal retook it a few days later. The queen’s soldiers escaped, but to punish the citizens for surrendering he sacked the city, burned down the university and strung half the population up along the walls so all who passed by could see the price of treason against the king. Women and children, too.”
Ulnoth frowned. “That’s…bullshit, Sally. You’re too credulous. That courier was having you on.”
“No, he wouldn’t even talk about it before downing a gallon of cider, and then only in whispers. He was scared. Scared me, too.” Sally shivered and wrapped herself closer around Ulnoth. “I wish some wizard would come along and just disappear us into Faerie, away from these godsfucked lords and their godsfucked war, leave us in peace.”
“That’s only in stories. Besides, you’d go batty with boredom in such a place.”
“Oh, I think you could keep me entertained,” she said, sliding a slender hand down between his legs. “Ready for more, I see.”
He took one of her olive-toned tits in his grasp. “Always.”
“Oh yes? You haven’t felt the full extent of my powers, arrogant mortal! Hows about I show you things….”
“Mmm, yes….”
Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Unspeakable things….”
“Ahh….”
“Things that pasty little wife of yours couldn’t even begin to imagine….”
Ulnoth suddenly jerked, shrank back. “Godsdammit!” He leaped up and tromped toward the clothes piled in the corner. “What’d I tell you last time? Chthonii, the one thing I say not to talk about….Shit!” He plucked his braies from the pile and one muddy leg of his chausses. He hopped from one leg to another as he wrenched his clothes on.
“Ulnoth, I’m sorry! I-I just got a bit carried away….”
“I’ll say you did.”
“Come on, don’t be that way. You know how I am.”
“Aye, I know.” He was dressed and out of the rented room without another word.
* * *
“Let’s get this over with.”
The factor looked up from his lunch with one raised eyebrow. “Good afternoon to you too, Ulnoth.”
The factor was easy to pick out even in the dim taproom, his ridiculous bag-sleeved silken cotte setting him well apart from the meaner villagers. Clean-shaven, with hair cut short in the current fashion, his very presence screamed, I’m better than any of you will ever be! Ulnoth knew he shouldn’t have come to the man angry. It probably wouldn’t end well, but he wanted to finish his business and go home. Stupid sandcrab girl, why’d she have to…. Whatever. He put it out of his mind. “Marek, you’ve no idea how profoundly uninterested I am in cocking around today, so you can save the excuses about pirates stealing shipments and I won’t remind you about blight and rationing. Heard it all before. I’ve got a great deal, even for you: fifteen per tun. Take it or leave it.”
Marek chewed, swallowed and sat back in his chair, all while keeping perfect eye contact with Ulnoth. “Twelve.”
“You worthless piece of—”
“In addition to the usual myriad catastrophes that can befall grain shipments, it’s become common knowledge that Emperor Artabarzanes is nipping at the borders of Bergovny, snatching away whole crops and adding to our woes. That’s what happens when Marcher lords are more interested in slaughtering each oth
er than keeping up a defense of the Marches. The Marimines Islands’ banks grow weary of the high-risk credit environment. Liquidity suffers.” He held up his palms as if to say, What can anyone do? Certainly not my fault, old boy. “Twelve.”
Ulnoth grimaced, punched the air. “Done,” he growled, simmering with bile.
“There now, that wasn’t so painful, was it?” Marek stood. “I wish all my clients were so decisive. Pleasure, as always. And as a token of goodwill, here’s an advance.” He tossed a silver penny onto the table then extended a hand along with the falsest of smiles. Ulnoth just glowered. “Until next season then.” He smirked and mounted the stepladder up out of the room.
Ulnoth scooped up the penny but didn’t bother putting it in his purse. He walked over to the plank laid between crates that served for a bar and slapped it back down as the brewer Ludrig passed. “Brandy,” he said.
An hour later he considered going home. An hour after that he reconsidered it. Twelve, he thought. Can we make it through the winter on that? Not likely. Maybe I should join the army after all. At least they drew some pay, and volunteers earned more than conscripts. After some unknown span of time Ulnoth looked up from his ponderings to notice the place emptier than usual. Completely empty, but for a couple of tanners. It was late but no one had bothered to toss him out. A nervous woman came down the stair, whispered something to the tanners, then they all left together in a hurry.
“Ludrig,” he called toward the back room. No answer. “Hey, Ludrig! Hey, I’m drinking up all your cider, better wake up and stop me!” When the bartender abandons his bar, something is very wrong. He crossed the sawdust-strewn cellar and climbed.
It was dark outside, an hour when all honest souls and most dishonest ones should be abed. Instead there was pandemonium. Townsfolk and strangers scrambled north on the highway along the Carsa River, walking, running, riding horse-drawn carts, mule carts and even a few rickshaws. Dogs barked. “What is going on?”
“Ulnoth!”
He turned with a scowl. “I’m still pissed at you, Sal—”
“Shut up and listen. They’re coming!”
“Coming? Who?”
“Reavers! Riding up from the south, firing everything in their path. They…they torched Lenocca.”
Ulnoth went white. “Lenocca? But it’s a temple city, inviolate!”
“Old quarter might be, but the land’s held by Felgred, Pharamund’s man. Word is they’re keeping to the river and burning. Your farm, isn’t it—?”
“Oh gods….” He didn’t waste any more breath. He tore through the stream of humanity flooding the road until he spotted a fast-looking horse, then leaped into the air and ripped the unfortunate rider from his saddle.
“Hey!” They fell to the ground together. The horse snorted and shied away while other travelers mostly interested in minding their own business drifted around the island of violence. Ulnoth climbed into the saddle, wrenched the horse around against the flow of traffic and into the darkness, leaving the mount’s owner shambling after him and spitting hellfire.
Faster, faster. Blood pounded in his ears as the horse pummeled the ground at a gallop, sweat steaming in the night’s chill. Ulnoth’s lungs burned with the effort of holding on. Go.
He smelled it first of course. That’s always how it is, isn’t it? He almost gagged at the smell. He tried breathing through his mouth. It didn’t help. They’ll hide. Yes, they’re clever, they know to hide.
Losing a crop was bad, even at a price of twelve per tun. Losing the house was worse, but if the foundation was sound it could be relaid. If anything happened to his little girl, to Athewen….
—that pasty little wife of yours—
He shook that memory from his head. Please, let them be all right and I swear I’ll never touch – look at – think about another woman again! He turned a corner, cleared a line of trees, and saw the red glow on the horizon. No….
Too late for the crops – millet, turnips, all a field of black, the fire already spread to the next property. The remains of his home burned bright. Ulnoth kicked the horse but still it slowed, spent and refusing to go another step toward the heat. Surely they would’ve got away from that. He crumpled from the saddle and half crawled toward the inferno. Smoke poured poison into his eyes, his throat.
“Athewen!” Ulnoth barely heard his own voice against the roar of the flames. “Lisette!” No use. “Athewen….”
They could be anywhere, or nowhere. He searched the bounds of the property, the edge of the forest, the rocky waste leading down to the riverbank calling their names over and over. Finally he let out a wordless howl. Smoke and fatigue overcame him as the adrenaline flowed out and he collapsed, dead to the world.
* * *
Ulnoth didn’t remember waking up, barely remembered how he’d got there. The horse – was there a horse? He couldn’t see one. His hands and clothes were black. The ground, trees, his own throat it seemed, all black with burn, except for the snow of gray ash in the early gloom. The sun overhead burned cold, hidden by cloud – real clouds or more smoke? There wasn’t even a wind to carry the fumes away. He lay still for a few centuries, certain he was in the deepest of the seventeen hells. A just reward, Bedegar’s voice droned from somewhere.
When aching joints broke the sad news that he was indeed still alive, Ulnoth rose and reached for a fencepost to steady himself. The charred wood crumbled in his grasp and he nearly fell again. What am I doing here? I had to find something. Some…. He looked at the ruin before him. It seemed familiar. This was my house. It hit him like a sucker punch from the gods. Athewen. Lisette.
The rubble still gave off a sickening heat, though the sting of singed arm and beard hairs barely registered as he trod among the cinders. It hadn’t been much of a house – one room and a small attached barn. It didn’t take long to search.
He found his wife’s body in the middle of the floor, and though it had been immolated to nothingness, he recognized the little copper Polytheon star still around her neck. A spearhead was lodged in her ribcage with the shaft snapped off just below it. Proof then, if any was needed, that this was no accident. Ulnoth stood over what was left of his wife, so in shock that he actually felt nothing in that moment. How can that be? wondered the tiny corner of his mind still capable of thought.
He paced the perimeter in a daze. The few animals they’d had were gone. The cornerstones of the foundation were blackened like everything else but still solid. All four of them. One, two, three….
Little Lisette was wedged up against the fourth one, golden hair all burned away. Part of her skull was missing, smashed against the cornerstone.
He doubled over and vomited, and when his stomach was empty he retched black bile. A thunderclap burst overhead, and as a cold rain fell and turned the world to a dark slimy swamp, Ulnoth wailed.
Chapter Four
The Hard Way
Alessia traveled a country of scar tissue in every direction – scorched fields, houses fallen back to the earth, people few and far between. Why, she wondered for the ten thousandth time, would anyone so completely break a land then fight so long and hard over it?
She’d started southward along the Talphus River, but quickly abandoned the idea after hearing word of fighting that way. Now she crept east, still keeping an eye out for soldiers. Pharamund had his supporters in Argovan and Engwara some in Bergovny, so one never knew where violence would erupt next. After finding no town intact, she spent her first night in a crumbled Polytheon priory, the brothers long fled or worse. Is it too late to go back? But of course it was, and her reasons for leaving could only deepen over time.
Two more days and the Sellinac Mountains fell away to ripples on the horizon near the Bergovan border. Some of the travelers Alessia asked for directions had strange accents and dialects, but in a world where serfs might never travel more than ten miles from where they were born, tongue
s could change from one town to another.
“Thahtaway. Abaht a day’s wahlk,” said the woman perched atop a cart drawn curiously by one ox and one mule yoked together. She jerked a thumb behind her. A haggard man in the seat with her clutched at a bundle like it was gold. “Ya can go straight on ’cross Carsa to Firleaf and ’at, or south to Plisten then ’Nocca. Don’t go north.”
“Why, what’s north?” Alessia asked.
“Wengeddy,” the man said, as if that was all the explanation needed. “Don’t go north.” The woman tapped the ox on the shoulder with a stick and the cart pressed on westward.
“Firleaf,” she said to herself. “That sounds pleasant.”
* * *
“Gods’ tits, woman, yer goin’ alone?”
The highways were dotted with wayside clearings every few miles to ease travelers, and this one boasted a firepit currently in use by ten or twelve of them. Alessia gave her inquisitor a bemused look. “What? Yes…I know, I know. Dangerous.”
“Dangerous.” The man nodded. “And nearer to full lunacy, or suicide.” He waved Alessia toward the fire and the bubbling pot that seemed too small to fill twelve stomachs. “Sit by awhile at least. Lucky thirteen we’ll be.”
“I…all right. But I haven’t much to add to your pot, just some hardtack.”
“Eh?” An older woman stirring the pot looked up. “Toss it in, soak up and add some thick to the mess.”
“Can I take it,” said the man who’d invited her, “by your unworldliness, if I may say so, that you be o’ the cloister?”
“You can take it,” Alessia answered as she crumbled a wafer into the pot, “but it’s not quite so anymore. I quit the temple.”
“You what?” Half the company said it all at once, and it might have been funny but for the horror on their hard-bitten faces. “Why, by the gods – if you’ll forgive me – would you go and do a damn fool thing like that? Leave the only halfway safe place left in the world?”
Alessia tried to explain what’d happened. They listened but didn’t seem to understand. “Hmm,” mumbled the old woman as she emptied a ladle of…whatever it was into a clay bowl. “Well tahns can always use a physic, just so long as you can get to one ain’t been hit yet—”