by Liam Perrin
"Go," said Bane. "The shipment leaves tomorrow."
Thomas stared at Bane for a moment in shock, then turned on his heel and fled the room. He carefully skirted the wedding reception, passed the barracks and made straight for the stables.
§
As the door swung slowly shut on the darkened table hall, Bane stood quietly grinning. It wasn't a friendly grin. If you came across a grin like that in a dark hall on a man standing by himself, you'd make an excuse and leave.
He rubbed some dried wax off his seal ring and glared at the Round Table. Moonlight was streaming in and illuminating a single, unclaimed siege. He bit his cheek and thought.
Drawing a dagger from his boot, he flipped it in his hand casually and moved to stand by the seat. He laughed once, shook his head, crawled under the table and started carving.
It took quite a bit of effort, and by the time he was finished he was sweating. He laid there in the moonlight in that quiet room appreciating his handiwork.
Bane was here.
After a while, he carefully cleaned up the mess of wood chips he'd made, and silently exited the hall.
CHAPTER XXI
William
Thomas awoke to a cool morning with a bright but weak sun clipping the horizon. He was lying on his back under a saddle blanket and atop a pile of sticks and leaves he'd assembled the evening before. In his haste to get on the road, he'd brought little in the way of traveling gear, and he'd forgotten exactly how far Fogbottom was from Camelot. The horse he'd conscripted from the palace stables had begun to lag late in the night, and despite Thomas's overwhelming desire to press on, he'd been forced to stop out of consideration for the dark bay stallion with the white blaze on its head.
The horse stared at Thomas and made hungry noises. His father would've called the marking a bald face. The stable master had called it a war bonnet. It bothered Thomas that he could remember this but couldn't recall the horse's name.
"Pounder?" tried Thomas experimentally.
The horse didn't react.
"Prancer?"
Nothing.
"Protagonist." Thomas was sure that was it, until the horse simply looked away.
Thomas watched his breath curl up and away, in and out of the sunlight streaming between the trees. He could hear small forest creatures rummaging through the undergrowth. The world felt solid, and Thomas felt like he was finally on the right path. His stomach growled.
"Well, in any case, let's see what's in here," said Thomas as he pushed himself up onto his feet and rummaged through the saddlebags the stable master had insisted on packing. Impatient as he'd been the night before, he was glad for the stable master's insistence now. Inside one bag he found strips of peppered jerky and in another a bag of oats which he fastened around the horse's muzzle.
"Pepper?" said Thomas, hoping that wasn't right.
The horse chewed and looked sideways at him. Thomas got the distinct impression the horse was not at all impressed.
Thomas gathered up what little gear he had and broke camp while they ate. When the horse had its fill, he saddled him and took one last look around to make sure he wasn't forgetting anything.
The sun was higher now and strong enough to cast shadows on the forest floor. The frosted ground crunched under his boots as he moved about. He replayed a scene in his mind that he'd gone over countless times the night before: He and William ride down their lane to the Farmer cottage. His father sees them approach and drops what he's doing to stare, mouth wide. He yells something and his mother, his grandmother, and little Elizabeth pour out of the cottage. They cheer and hug and cry and everyone is glad to see William, but equally glad to see Thomas, amazed at who he's become and what he's accomplished. His father takes him aside and tells him he knew Thomas had it in him all along.
It was going to be a great day.
§
That same morning, two men came galloping up the lane to the Farmer's cottage in Fogbottom. One was armored and escorted another who was rather smartly dressed, but road-worn, and his horse was laden with more saddlebags than seemed considerate from the horse's point of view.
Mr. Farmer was outside working, as usual, and he called to the Mrs. which brought not just Mrs. Farmer out, but Grandma and Elizabeth as well.
The smartly dressed man pulled a letter out of one of the saddlebags and read, "Mother and Father Farmer, Cottage at the End of the Road, Fogbottom?"
They looked at each other briefly.
"That'd be us," said Mr. Farmer.
"Sign for delivery please," said the man.
Elizabeth waved at the armored man, who tried to ignore her. "I like your horse's dress," she said.
The guard choked and glanced at the other adults. "It's not a dress, young miss. It's quilted armor." He looked horrified.
"Oh," said Elizabeth, "sorry. Well, anyway it's very pretty." She smiled reassuringly, but the man seemed inconsolable.
As the two men rode away, the Farmer's crowded around Mr. Farmer who carefully opened the letter and experimented with different distances between it and his eyes until he found one that suited him. He read:
Dear Mum and Dad,
Working on it.
Love to you all,
Thomas
"That's it?" said Mrs. Farmer.
"Appears so," said Mr. Farmer.
"Well, there ye go," said Grandma Farmer, and headed back inside.
§
People addressed him with various names – Knuckles, Bones, Grandpa, Grumps, Old Man Chitterton, or just plain Old Man. No one could remember a Fogbottom without him. Every morning at half past ten, he showed up at the Brimful Kettle, ordered an orange pekoe "and keep 'em comin' miss," sat down – outside if it was nice and inside if it was otherwise – and set up either a chess board or a nine men's morris. There he'd sit, beating anyone who chose to have a go and speaking very little until seven that evening when the Kettle closed, at which point, Grumps would clear his table, pack up his board, and head home leaving a single silver coin on the table – enough to cover his tab for at least three days let alone one.
Grumps was very welcome at the Brimful Kettle.
No one asked him questions. Not because they didn't have any, but because he was so perfectly comfortable not answering them people grew comfortable not knowing.
At quarter to six, Grumps was eating a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich outside the Kettle and sitting three moves from checkmate with Chas Brightman who was sitting cross-armed, staring at the board and puffing on a pipe he'd carved himself.
"Let's go, champ, ain't got all day," said Grumps.
Chas guffawed. "Who're you kiddin'? All day is 'zactly what you've got old man."
"Hmpf," said Grumps, and chewed on his sandwich.
After a moment, he stopped, cocked his head and said "What's that?"
"That's the sound of Heaven's Chorus come to usher you on before you beat me again." Chas frowned inside the cloud of pipe smoke billowing around his head.
"Not that," said Grumps. "That!"
A bay charger bearing a war bonnet and a knight astride him shot round the corner, up the street, through the market, and out of sight.
Grumps popped the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and started packing his own pipe with tobacco. Chas peeled himself off the wall, righted the table and his chair, and began picking up chess pieces, grumbling all the while.
"What in God's green Earth... I oughta... Who do they think...? Give a man a... Rotten baron guards... Like they own the place!"
He sat down, brushed off his pipe, and stared moodily at Grumps.
"They do," said Grumps.
"Do what?"
"Own the place, indirectly. But that was no Baron's man."
"Well who was it then?"
"If I'm not mistaken," said Grumps, "that young man bore the marks of the Less Valued."
"The who?"
Grumps didn't answer, and Chas had learned long ago that it was no use
pressing. Grumps answered what he wanted, when he wanted.
Grumps puffed slowly on his pipe and stared down the road after Thomas. At one point, he shifted and felt for the reassuring presence of the heavy leather chest armor he still wore every day under his tunic.
They called him lots of things: Grumps, Knuckles, Old Man; It had been a long time since anyone had called him Sir Chitterton. He packed up his belongings, bade good day to Chas, flipped a silver coin onto the table and headed home early.
§
Thomas crossed the drawbridge spanning Fogbottom Keep's empty moat. His horse's hooves pounded hollow and jolting until he was back on solid ground on the other side. He slowed and stopped as one of a pair of guards approached and took hold of his reins.
"Come from Camelot, sir? What news? Oi, Farmer? Is that you?"
Thomas dismounted. "Aye Wendsley, it's me."
Wendsley looked bigger than ever around the middle. The straps of his armor were strained and looked like they wouldn't hold much longer.
"Well, look at you!" said Wendsley. He stepped back and examined Thomas, head to foot and back. "What've ye gone and done to yerself? Workin' for Camelot now? Who's takin' care of yer Mum and Dad what with–"
Wendsley's face suddenly fell; he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Maybe ye don't know! Yer brother William's been locked up here for..."
Wendsley paused and screwed up his face. Thomas could see the mental strain, and when Wendsley started counting on his fingers, Thomas decided to save him the agony.
He pushed Bane's letter at Wendsley and said, "I know."
Wendsley took the letter, held it up in front of him, read the addressee, examined the seal, reread the addressee, and raised his eyebrows.
"I'm here to fix that," said Thomas.
"Well, right this way, sir," said Wendsley. The "sir" was said with a bit too much conviviality and too little sincerity for Thomas's taste at the moment. This was official business after all, and as a member of the Baron's militia, Wendsley was guilty by association as far as Thomas was concerned. Wendsley's chummy slap to his back didn't help either.
Wendsley put two fingers in his mouth and blew the kind of whistle Thomas had always thought was louder than a man had a right to make. A stable hand came running, accepted the reins, and led Thomas's horse away while Wendsley and Thomas entered the Keep proper.
They walked down a long hall, narrower and less decorated than the halls at Camelot. In fact, the only accoutrement Thomas saw was a single flag bearing the Baron's all too familiar livery: a white crescent moon on a red field. It marked the entrance to the Baron's throne room, which Thomas caught a glimpse of as they passed.
The throne room was stark. Above a chair that would've been painfully self-conscious in the presence of the Round Table's sieges, a pair of iron weapons hung: a mean looking mace and a longsword with an uninteresting hilt. The weapons looked more practical than decorative.
Thomas felt uneasy, but brushed it off. In a few minutes, he'd be reunited with his brother and they'd be on their way to deliver the good news, and themselves, home.
Wendsley took hold of a thick wooden knocker on a small, heavy door in a dark corner and rapped loudly. The sound echoed in the quiet keep. He stood back when he was finished and waited. After a moment, they could hear footsteps coming up stairs on the other side of the door, and a portal at head-height opened, revealing a puffy, scrunched up face not unlike Wendsley's.
"Password," said the face with a gruff voice.
Wendsley leaned in and whispered, "Despair."
"That was last week," said the face.
"Oh," said Wendsley, "right, um..." He pulled back and glanced at Thomas nervously. Counting with his fingers again, he mumbled to himself, "Despair, death, disease, disfigurement, dislocation, dis...
"Dismemberment!" he blurted.
The face screwed up even more and spat, "Shhh!" It shot a look at Thomas.
Wendsley grimaced, leaned back toward the door and whispered far too clearly, "Dismemberment!"
The face rolled its eyes, the portal slammed shut, and the door swung open revealing a narrow set of stairs curving down steeply into a musty dungeon.
Wendsley stood up straight and, in a voice that was as official-sounding as he could muster, addressed the guard to whom the scrunched up face from the portal belonged: "Sir Thomas Farmer to see the Warden on official business vis-à-vis the Baron's son, Bane of Fogbottom."
It sounded rehearsed, and knowing Wendsley, Thomas figured it had been rehearsed a lot.
"I know who the Baron's son is, Wendsley," grumbled the second guard. He turned to Thomas and did something horrible to his face. It took Thomas a moment to realize he was trying to stretch it into a welcoming smile.
"Right this way," said the guard, and gestured down the stairs. Wendsley led the way and Thomas followed while the second guard shut the small but heavy door, locked it, and lumbered after them.
The sound of the door locking gave Thomas an instant of perspective – seeing the dungeon from the point of view of someone taking up residence in it shot a pang of mixed feelings: horror for William who'd spent far too long imprisoned here simply for trying to help the village, anger at Bane and the Baron for their thoughtless cruelty to William and countless others, and trepidation at the thought of being locked up himself, which Thomas quickly brushed off as irrational. He craned his neck to make sure Wendsley still carried the letter from Bane. He did, and Thomas focused his thoughts on the job at hand: Talk to the warden, retrieve his brother, and get out.
They entered a small room dimly lit by torches fixed to the wall in plain, iron sconces. A table made from a single, thick board, a few solid, but otherwise unremarkable chairs, and a locked cabinet in the corner were the only furnishings. A deck of crudely detailed cards was strewn about the table.
A third guard rose from his seat. "I'll take that," he said, pointing at Thomas's sword.
Thomas gave Wendsley a questioning look.
"Standard procedure," said Wendsley. "Can't trust these pris'ners with sharp objects. Crazy, the lot of 'em.
"'Cept William, of course," he added hastily.
Thomas reluctantly handed over Ambrosia.
The third guard pulled out a ring of keys, unlocked the cabinet, and hung Thomas's sword inside among an assortment of similar but less remarkable implements.
The three guards looked at each other.
"I ain't gettin' him," said the second guard.
Wendsley looked at the guard with the keys.
"Uh-uh," said the third guard. "Me neither. Warden doesn't like to be n'trupted when he's med'tatin."
Wendsley sighed, drew himself up and knocked on a door on the far side of the small room.
There was a sound of something tumbling over, a cough, and then a voice yelled, "Who 'zit? Better be good!"
The door opened and an old, mean looking man glared from guard to guard to Wendsley to Thomas. He was short and disheveled, and Thomas got the immediate impression he blamed both those states on everyone else.
Wendsley opened his mouth to say something, but when the warden's head snapped in his direction, he instantly shut it again and thrust the letter at him.
He eyed Wendsley suspiciously, but took the letter and gave Thomas another hard look before examining it. He closed one eye and squinted at the seal before breaking it open, sighing, and reading the contents. His brow creased more and more as his eyes moved down the page. His eyes flicked up at Thomas when he finished.
"Right this way, sir," he said to Thomas. The warden motioned for Wendsley and the guard with the keys to follow, and they headed down a short hall, through a door, and into another hall with dozens of cell doors lining both sides.
"Your brother's in the last one on the left," growled the warden. Thomas hurried forward, registering the presence of a few other prisoners in the cells he passed. In the final cell, a figure hunched on a thin pile of dirty straw.
"William?" said Thomas. It di
dn't look like him at all.
The figure stirred, turned, and stood up. He was filthy, shirtless, and wide-eyed. His hair was matted together in some places and in others shot straight out from his head at odd angles. He had a beard.
Thomas stared, then finally, underneath it all, found his brother.
"William!" he shouted.
William shuffled forward and came to an abrupt halt. Thomas and William both looked down. A chain stretched between a bracket on the back wall and William's ankle.
"Remove that at once," Thomas said to the warden.
The warden gave a little bow that seemed infuriatingly unremorseful. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying something here immensely.
"Open the door," he said.
The guard with the keys moved toward William's cell door.
"Not that one," said the warden. He pointed to the cell door next to William's. "That one."
Thomas's mind raced. "What's going on?"
"In you go," said the warden. He shoved Thomas into the cell, snatched the keys from the guard – who looked as surprised as Thomas but not nearly as horrified – and locked the cell door.
"What are you doing? You're to free my brother..."
The warden unfurled Bane's letter, and Thomas's stomach sank.
"To the Warden of Fogbottom Keep from his Lord's son Bane, kindly inter the bearer of this note, Thomas Farmer, a subject of the Baron of Fogbottom, for crimes against His Lordship and actions in conflict with the interest of Fogbottom. His term of incarceration shall last until such time as the Baron or his eldest and only son can be beset upon to administer justice in said matter.
"Signed, Bane, son of Fogbottom."
A wave of rage washed over Thomas, but as quickly as it came, it spilled away, and left him feeling simply cold and dark and empty. He'd been had. He gripped the iron bars of his cell, closed his eyes, and embraced what he knew his family had believed about him all along.
Thomas Farmer was a failure.