The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  “Such is the way of the world,” she thought to herself.

  As the crowd increased in density they reached a crude town wall. It was more of a rickety collection of old shacks with a surrounding road than a wall proper, but the large double doors were wide open, and guards were permitting people to pass at will. They dismounted and led their horses by the reins, Zya patting Red on the nose as she walked in front. As they were about to pass through the entrance, a man holding what could be called a crude pike at best stepped out to block their way. He was stocky; proof of years spent labouring in fields. His hands were callused and worn; the hands of a framer. He had wrinkles beyond count but did not seem old enough that he couldn't handle his current profession. The man frowned as he stared at each of them, his eyes lingering a touch too much for comfort on Zya. She stared right back at him, challenging him to continue staring at her.

  “I don't know you,” he rasped in a voice that could only be described as gravelly. “Who be you, and what be your business in Hoebridge?” The man asked in the direction of Tarim, though Zya was sure the man didn't know whom to address.

  “I am Tarim S'Vedai, and this is my daughter. We are part of a group of travellers, the rest who are at this moment on the outskirts of your village.” The guard, if he could be called that, eyed him suspiciously.

  “Tinkers you mean? Good. There be a lot of work coming your way if you chose to stay here. But you be not with them. I be knowing a bit about your kind and I knows they stay together.”

  Tarim nodded. “That is true, but we have some business to attend to and felt it best if we rode on ahead to sort it out.”

  The guard pondered this for a moment, and finding nothing dubious in what they said he relented. “Well we be seeing if you speak the truth when the rest get here, if there are any,” he grumbled. “If you be seeking lodgings, the Arms of the Oakwater be half full at best. That be near the council house in the centre of town.” Tarim nodded his thanks.

  “One more thing,” the man added in a low voice. “We believe in the old Law here, so none of your tinker trickery. Else there be trouble.” With a final glance at Zya the guard let them pass through the gates, which Zya was of the opinion wouldn't hold one horse, let alone a band of wilful attackers. Still, they were symbolic of the protection even if they wouldn't actually provide any.

  Despite the slum conditions outside the gates, the village inside was relatively free of rubbish. The street was wide and open, and although the road was not paved, it looked tidy; as though it had been. The afternoon sun shone almost straight down the street, and Zya realised that the lack of rain mostly probably explained the tidiness of the road. It had not rained in a great while at this altitude. Yellowing grass grew in tufts up against fence posts, evidence that it had been chopped back by someone who was content to do half a job. The houses were crowded, but orderly, each with a roof thatched in the style of so many country cottages in the region. Tiny fences, not even knee high, proclaimed the boundaries of each householder's land, and the explosion of colour from within was breathtakingly beautiful. Plants Zya had only seen in the mountains grew amongst rocks with vivid shades of violet and yellow contrasting with the red berries of a bush she had never before seen. As they led their horses past one such bush Zya stopped her father. “What are these bushes father? They are so beautiful and the berries seem so inviting.”

  “Don't they just?” Tarim replied. “That is the Lypar bush, and its berries, although very pleasing to the eye, are amongst the more deadly poisons in this land.” Tarim snorted in disgust. “These foolish people probably do not know what they grow, or what danger they could be in were the juice of the berries to get onto their skin.”

  With no more inclination to stop and gaze at the beautiful but deadly gardens, they walked their horses on through the residential area of the village. It was much the same throughout. Zya did notice one thing that left her concerned. “There are hardly any children here, have you noticed?” she asked Tarim.

  “Yes, I know,” he replied. “Why do you think that might be?”

  “Well from my reaction to the berries just now, I would say that the children of this place have never been taught about the dangers of certain plants, but I can't believe it would have so devastating an effect.”

  “Keep that opinion in the back of your mind when we meet whomever runs this place,” Tarim replied in a quiet voice. “It might be that these people simply don't know the dangers, or it might be something else. I pity them if it is the case though. A world without children would be a sorry world indeed.” As they continued, the housing ended abruptly, becoming a large market. The ground sloped away, allowing them a better view of the rest of the village. On the other side of the market stood the tavern the guard had mentioned, and beyond that were a few larger buildings, and then more of the familiar thatched cottages. They walked through the market and Zya could not help but gaze at the variety of goods on offer.

  Although it was late in the day, no one seemed like they were going to pack up. Everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to lacy underclothes and weapons for the rich were being hawked by the tradesmen. Zya gazed at several items with a look of appreciation in her eyes; a look her father knew would probably end up costing a great deal of coin. Still, there would be plenty of time for looking around a market such as this. As they crossed the market square and came to the door of the tavern a young boy stepped forward to take the horses from them. He was grinning, his cheek dimpling. He wore a simple brown tunic that reeked of practicality, but was smart enough to show that it wasn't made cheaply. His tussled brown hair gave Zya the impression that he was another country yokel, but she was not surprised he did not sound like he looked; nothing was ever obvious, her father had taught her.

  “Greetings my Lord and Lady, welcome to the Arms of the Oakwater. May I offer stable for your horses, and a room for the night?”

  Zya looked at the boy, who gazed back for a second and then blushed. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “I am called Juatin, my lady, but everyone calls me Ju for short.”

  Zya smiled, bringing a further blush to the boy's cheeks. “Well Ju, we have lodgings already, but you can stable our horses for us and brush them down thoroughly. See that they are looked after well.” As she said this, Tarim pressed a small silver coin into the boy's hand. He looked down at the coin, and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. He then looked up at Zya and her father with sincere gratitude in his eyes.

  “If there's anything else you need, just shout my name and I will come running!”

  Tarim nodded. “There is one thing you can do for us my lad, and that is tell us about the people who run this village and where they will be found.”

  “My pleasure, Sir.” The boy grinned. “The village council is in that large white building, just a bit down West Street off the market square. They will probably be finishing for the day about now, as they usually come into the tavern for a few tankards of ale. My father brews the best in the entire region!” Ju boasted.

  “I am sure he does my boy” Tarim replied with a wink. “You be sure to look after our horses my lad, we will be back later tonight or in the morning at the latest.” Ju smiled at them both, and led the horses off to a side entrance.

  As she watched him go Zya commented, “That boy is very good with horses, almost a natural. I have never seen someone so small take control of Red so easily. Red doesn't seem to mind at all.” Tarim watched the horses being led through a side gate and once they disappeared he wandered down the street towards the building indicated by Ju.

  The area immediately surrounding the building had been recently paved, with mounds of dirt from excavation still lying a short distance away. The deep red hue of the soil made it obvious why crops grew so well; this river valley was as fertile as any place Zya had seen on her travels. An early evening breeze made its way down the street, bringing with it dust from the mounds. Something piqued Zya's curiosity as she peered at the paved
road they had now reached.

  “Look at the dust on the ground,” Zya said to her father. Tarim knelt down on the stones and gazed as the breeze ebbed. “Do you see how the dust settles elsewhere but never on the stones?”

  Tarim looked again and then wet his left index finger and held it up. “No breeze,” he replied with an intrigued air to his voice. “And yet the dust carries on as if there was.”

  “Something in the rocks is pushing the dirt away.” Zya finished for her father. “What is it? The stones do not look right in this street, maybe it's the fact that this is the only part of the town to look like this that makes me feel odd.”

  Tarim looked up at his daughter. “You are wise to think of it as odd, Zya. I think someone has used a lot of energy for a very stupid purpose. It looks to me as if someone has used magic for aesthetic purposes.”

  Zya frowned. “I thought the magic was beyond being used for such purposes. Gren always told us that anybody who used it did so for a meaning.”

  “In most cases yes,” her father agreed. “But greed spreads its wings and travels far and wide throughout this land. It looks like it has reached even this backward village.”

  With a brief glance around them, Tarim opened the huge door that in itself seemed more protective than the gates at the village wall. It swung open on silent hinges that were obviously well looked after. The entrance hall was narrow with a high ceiling. The walls were painted a garish shade of yellow, and as they walked through they saw pictures of quiet rural life strangely interspersed with violent battle scenes. As they passed an iron spiral staircase, one such picture drew Zya to a halt. When Tarim noticed his daughter had paused he stepped back to see what had caught her attention. She stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by a depiction of a shroud -covered axeman in the middle of hewing the neck of a man in animal fur. More of the animal fur-clad men were chained in the foreground, in various poses of agony. The background of the scene was composed of high dark walls, stark against the colour of the action in front of them.

  Tarim laid his hand upon his daughter's shoulder. She shuddered, the sudden movement sending a ripple through her long dark hair. A tear rolled down her cheek. She noticed it and caught the drop with the end of one finger as it fell from her face. Concerned, Tarim turned Zya to face him. “Are you all right?”

  Zya glanced back at the picture and then averted her eyes. “What is that?” Tarim stared a second before saying, “That is a depiction of one of the great tragedies to occur in this land. Twenty odd years ago, after the Night of Spears, there was a great outcry. People wanted someone to pay for what had happened, but could find no one to blame. Eventually, a zealot known to some as the Witchfinder General, took it upon himself to blame the Uporan nomads for what had happened. He took a band of renegade soldiers loyal to himself and hunted down the nearest tribe. After a bitter battle in which many of the tribe's women and children were killed, he returned to Raessa with a half dozen of the surviving tribesmen. He executed them in front of the city walls. No explanation of proof. Nothing. Realising what he had done, the Raessan council of seers sought to capture him and try him for the murders, but he disappeared shortly after.”

  Tarim looked at the other battle scenes. “From what I had heard, pictures like this were commissioned by the council in order to teach people the price we pay for haste and bad judgement; their warning to any that would do such a thing that they would never get away with it. They were definitely not supposed to be a part of some slaughterhouse collection.” Tarim's face darkened, and his eyes flashed in the lamplight of the hall. “I am certainly looking forward to meeting whoever deems these pictures worthy of being hung in such a manner.” Putting his arm around Zya's shoulders, he walked her down the hall, making sure she did not come across any of the more graphic depictions. At the far end was a smaller set of doors. Tarim opened these with perhaps a little more force than was necessary and found a room that had a small dais on one side, and a large table on the other. Crowded at one end of the table was a collection of middle-aged men in the later stages of a meal.

  Seeing them enter, one of the men stood up and calmly walked around the head of the table towards them as they crossed the room. He had a thin shock of wiry hair that appeared to stick up at every conceivable angle. If he hadn't been walking so solemnly he would have almost appeared comical, Zya thought to herself. As they approached him he stopped, placed the tips of his fingers together and bowed to them. “Greetings to you, travellers,” he said as he rose. “I am Melgar and I welcome you to the house of the Hoebridge council. I would offer you a seat at the table to sup with us, but we are nearly finished for the evening. I am sure we could find something, if you are hungry?” He smiled in a manner eager to please.

  Zya could see her father was worked up from the pictures in the hall. As he opened his mouth she interrupted him. “We thank you for your gracious welcome, Melgar. I am Zya S'Vedai and this is my father, Tarim.”

  Melgar nodded to them both. “Tarim, Zya, welcome to you both. Feel free to come sit and discuss your needs with us.” They moved to the table where Melgar introduced the other men present. For the most part they seemed like farmers from the surrounding populace. Each welcomed them quietly but politely. Melgar addressed Zya as she had started the conversation, though he was well aware that Tarim was angry at something and did his best to avoid eye contact.

  “It has been too long since we have had a group of travellers visit us. You will have plenty of work.”

  Zya nodded; pleased her father was content to watch. “The guard at the wall said as much.”

  Melgar laughed. “Old Uye? He was ever one to know the goings on of the village. He is an efficient village guardsman but since we have put him in charge of the gate he has become the biggest busybody in the village, if not the whole region.”

  Zya smiled. “I would not presume to know the mind of our mistress, but I am sure she will want to sell our services for a while. We came to you for a different matter.”

  “Oh?” replied Melgar, “Say on then.”

  Zya took a breath to gather her thoughts and the continued. “A week or so ago we were beset by a pair of bandits in the hills to the East of here. Now, our guards would have normally dealt with them in the way that they knew best, but we disabled them before this happened. As you know, the rules of the traveller permits no killing in cold blood, but they also state a group should take no person captive. In view of the circumstances, our mistress chose the lesser of two evils and we have kept them bound since that time. We knew that the old law was still used in villages hereabouts, so we rode ahead to see if you would aid us in our dilemma.”

  Melgar sat there mulling this over while he sipped at a pale yellow drink in a glass goblet. He looked over the pair of them and then rose and poured them both a goblet. “Where were my manners? Please, enjoy. It is called mountainberry water and is made from local berries.” Melgar sat back down. “Now, as to your problem. It is true that we do adhere strictly to the old law, which states that should anyone beset in such a way has the right to have their attacker arrested and imprisoned for a month. That you captured them proves you were not without resources, but that you did not kill them shows your good intent.”

  “Will you take them from us then?” Zya asked. “For we cannot take them with us. We hoped that a village such as yours would aid us, especially as they seemed so dangerous.”

  A younger man who had sat there frowning at Zya the entire time spoke up. “How do we know they are telling the truth? They come in here without even knocking and interrupt us in our meal, and expect us to take men only they say are bandits, without any proof?”

  “Peace, Frilzae.” Another of the council spoke up. An elderly gentleman, he smiled benevolently at the two of them. “Our youngest council member does not know everything about life.” Looking steadily down at Frilzae he stood up and added, “He certainly does not know that the word of a traveller is the word of truth.”

  Frilzae
stared defiantly around the table. “I know and believe what I can touch and see,” he announced.

  “A farmers words if ever I heard them. Narrow of vision and small minded,” commented Tarim. Zya watched her father as he rose. He had regained his self-control, which relieved her greatly. She could see that he was still angry, but she knew that only because of the close bond she shared with him. The council would never know if he chose not to show it. “It is people like you who have made a mockery of the old law. It is people like you who have lowered the values of countless people.” Tarim stared Frilzae down from across the table. “You want to hear words of truth?” Tarim turned to address Melgar. “Melgar, how are the children in this village?” Zya could see by the sudden widening of eyes and intake of breaths that the assembled men were going to give an answer her father had sworn would be true.

  Melgar swallowed, and then answered hesitantly. “There…have been some deaths recently. We do not know why.”

  “It is because of the bad water supply; I have asked it to be improved time and again,” interrupted Frilzae.