The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  Elena swallowed a chunk of pale, glistening potato. “Humans can live to some eighty years, can’t they? Perhaps we can find an elder who remembers being told what happened.”

  “Good idea,” said Hugh. “But we’re running short on time. Dusk will be upon us soon.”

  Anastasia pushed her dish away. “There’s room for greater efficiency. Let’s speak with Branka and ask her who is the eldest person in the valley.”

  “All right.” Hugh hesitated. “Morwyn? Not going to eat?”

  No answer. She kept spinning her blade and looking off into the distance.

  Hugh restrained a sigh. “Captain? You going to eat?”

  “No. Thank you,” said Morwyn, words clipped.

  “Very well. In which case I’m ready. Over to Branka’s?”

  Nods all round. They rose, tidied away dishes, and then followed Hugh out into the evening sunlight. Music wafted over the Mandroga, played in the market square by a gaggle of fiddlers, drummers, and horn players. Many were dancing, laughing, and as Hugh crossed the bridge and drew closer, he saw that despite Jarmoc’s admonitions that a party was in full swing.

  “Same as it ever was,” said Anastasia by his side. “We can’t keep our eye on the burning path when there’s drink and merriment to be had.”

  “It’s called living,” said Elena from just behind him. “What’s the point of walking the burning path if it precludes all joy and fun?”

  “Careful,” said Hugh. “You’ll get yourself in trouble saying that out loud.”

  “But it’s true!”

  “Maybe. But if word gets to Jarmoc he’ll stop at nothing to make an example of you.”

  Anastasia linked her arm through Elena’s. “You must know this by now. We humans are capable of endless paradoxes. Like celebrating carnal passions before a shriving without allowing admitting what we’re doing out loud.”

  Hugh smiled with grim amusement. “As long as it’s an unspoken agreement, folk can drink and dance and screw with impunity. But state it out loud, and you’re defying the Fate Maker.”

  “The power of words,” said Elena. “True. I know that power well. I’ll keep my surmises to myself.”

  Hugh led them down River Street and into the market square, where the music was loud and rough and infectious, where tables were laden with pies and cuts of meat, small barrels of mead and ale, pots of soup and baskets of freshly baked honeyed twists. Children were everywhere underfoot, laughter was free, and people embraced and danced with each other without stint.

  Smiling ruefully as he declined a couple of invitations from laughing maidens, Hugh led the way to Branka’s tavern, bowing his head as he stepped inside. The place was full, men having come down from the mountain farms to flock to its bar, and the air close and filled with smoke and the stench of sweat. Both fireplaces were roaring, another fiddler was sawing at his instrument in the corner, and everyone was shouting over each other to be heard.

  The crowd parted for him, however, so that he reached the bar with ease and there caught Branka’s eye. She and two others were working as fast as they could to fill orders, filling tankards with endless amounts of foaming ale and pressing them into grasping, eager hands. Hugh nodded to the side, saw her hesitate, then lean over to shout something in her assistant’s ear and led them into the kitchen where the sounds of revelry were muffled. Wlad was busy stirring a huge pot while three other youths peeled potatoes and basted meat that was being turned over the fire.

  “My lord,” said Branka, wiping perspiration from her brow. “How can I help? If it’s ale or food you be wanting -”

  “Information,” said Hugh. “And I’ll make it quick. The fort up in the mountains. How did it come to fall?”

  “The fort? Now? Very well.” She blew a lock of blonde hair from her face. “I heard about that from my grandfather. One of his favorite tales. All of which would take half an hour to tell, what with descriptions of the castellan and his lady, the three dark knights that trod the walls without need of sleep or supper, and the way they provoked the fae into attacking them -”

  “The castellan and his wife?” asked Elena, pressing in. “What of her?”

  “Her? Oh, that’s the saddest part of the tale. She was darkly beautiful, with raven locks and eyes like stars and all that. But she cheated on her husband and slept with a fae princeling, who asked for her hand. But she grew scared and said no, she’d not leave the human world, arousing his ire. He swore he’d come for her on the night of the full moon, and with his whole army appeared outside the gates, demanding the castellan hand her over.”

  “He must have been pissed,” said Morwyn, crossing her arms.

  Shouts from the front room drew Branka’s eyes. “When she told her husband the truth, he grew furious. A bad man, he was. He swore to not let her fall into fae hands, but knew he couldn’t fight off the host. So he had her chained to the wall and given to his hounds, who savaged her to death while the guards cheered them on. The fae prince strode in through the front gate, and in his fury turned everybody into rats. The castellan’s wife begged him for mercy, but he sneered at her, and said she’d lost the right to his kindness when she turned him down. He left her to die and returned to his magical castle in the clouds.”

  Hugh blinked. “That’s an awful tale.”

  “The best ones usually are. Now, what else? I’ve customers waiting, if you don’t mind my saying, my lord.”

  Elena reached out to touch her elbow. “If everyone was turned to rats, how did word of the tale get out?”

  Branka shrugged. “The best tales don’t worry about such niceties.”

  “Is there anyone alive today who was alive then?” asked Anastasia.

  “This was a century ago,” laughed Branka. “Medved’s probably the only one still alive, though he was a bear then, too.”

  “Who’s the eldest in the village, then?” asked Anastasia.

  “That’d be Grandma Hohemias,” said Branka. “Some say she’s near a century old herself, but that can’t be true. Still, she’s our eldest, and doesn’t leave her bed these days. She lives three houses down on Thatch Street. Watches the world go by from her bedroom window. Look for the rose-painted door. Her grandson, Hresko, owns the house, both his parents having died of the sweating fever when it last rolled through. Anything else?”

  “No, and thank you,” said Hugh.

  Branka gave a mocking curtsy, eyed Morwyn speculatively, then hurried back out front.

  “Wlad,” called Hugh. “There a back door?”

  “Aye, my lord. Right through there. I’ll show you?”

  “Don’t spare the spuds. I’ll see myself out.” Hugh followed the youth’s finger, into a short hall that ended in a stout door. This he unlatched and stepped out into a shadowy lane that ran parallel to River Street, deep and narrow, as if it had been carved out between the twin rows of houses by a great finger.

  Still, it was nearly as festive as the market square; streamers crisscrossed the space between the houses in a confusion of colored stripes, and doors were flung open and through which portraits of deceased ancestors could be seen, having been brought down so that they could peer outside at the waking world and its festivities. Older folk gathered in the street, mugs and cups in hand, to laugh and chatter and tease each other.

  “Down there,” said Elena, pointing out a house. “The door’s open, but I can see the rose trim.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” said Hugh, leading them down the narrow street. They stopped at the bottom of the steps that led up to it.

  “You could make the trim from back there?” asked Anastasia, turning to Elena.

  Who smiled. “I’ve got good vision. I know you can’t see well in shadows, but, well, I can.”

  A couple sat just within the doorway, having pulled up chairs, and had a small barrel set between them on which two wooden cups rested. At the sight of the arrivals, the middle-aged man and woman stood, expression suddenly anxious.

  “My lord?
” The man reached for his head as if to pull off a cap, found it missing, and instead folded his hands together over his stomach. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “Would you be Hresko, owner of this home?”

  “At your service, my lord.” The man bowed low. “This is my wife, Safaera.”

  “Is your grandmother in residence? I was told by Branka that she’s the oldest person in Erro. I’d have a word with her, if it’s not too much bother.”

  “With grandma?” Hresko blinked. “But of course. She’s watching everything from her window upstairs. If you take a step back, you’ll see her.”

  Hugh did as he was told, and saw a wrinkled face watching him from the second-floor window. The old woman’s eyes widened, and she pulled her head back and out of sight.

  “Here, please. Up this way.” Hresko pulled his chair aside, his wife doing the same, and bid Hugh follow. Led him into a tiny parlor, up a narrow staircase, and onto a landing just large enough for the two of them faced by doors on all sides.

  Hresko rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. “Grandma? Lord Hugh of Stasiek would like a word.”

  “Come in,” came a surprisingly clear voice.

  Hresko opened the door and stepped aside, bowing once more. Hugh moved past him and into the chamber, which was small but fastidiously clean, the floorboards waxed to such a high gloss so that they seemed covered in a film of water, the candlelight reflected across their surface with eerie clarity.

  Icons of the Fate Maker hung from the walls, from his golden circle to abstract depictions of the burning path, interspersed with small, dark portraits and dried flower bouquets. The only piece of furniture was the large bed pressed flush against the wall beside the window so that its occupant could look outside without needing to rise, and it was covered in a clean and well-mended quilt that was pulled up to Grandma Hohemias’ waist.

  Grandma Hohemias was a prim, diminutive old lady who seemed lost within her white gown and cap, but her gaze was sharp and her expression clear of all befuddlement. Little larger than a girl, she seemed wizened and shrunken, her face so seamed and wrinkled that it looked like a paper that had been scrunched up and then spread across her skull. Yet her spine was stiff, her manner regal, and she inclined her head with dignified deference.

  “Good afternoon, Mistress Hohemias,” said Hugh, moving forward to stand at the foot of her bed. “Please excuse our unannounced visit. I am Lord Hugh of Stasiek. These are my companions, Disciplus Anastasia, Captain Morwyn, and Elena.”

  “You do me too much honor, my lord.” Her voice had a quaver to it, but the words were clearly spoken. “Please excuse my not rising. My legs are not what they once were. How can I be of assistance?”

  Elena sat upon the edge of her bed and smiled with such warmth that the old lady blinked. “We’ve questions of the past, my dear. Of events that took place before you were born. The fall of the fortress.”

  “Do I know you?” asked the old woman, peering up at Elena. “You seem terribly familiar.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met, no.” And, with disarming confidence, she reached out to take the old woman’s liver-spotted claw of a hand. “But I’m glad to meet you now. It’s always such an honor to meet one as long lived as yourself.”

  “I see. Well, well. The fort. You have come, no doubt, to rebuild it, my lord?”

  “Such are my orders.”

  “You’ll have a terrible time going about it, then. You’ve heard the tales?”

  “Branka gave us a short version. The castellan’s wife and the fae prince who turned everyone into rats?”

  “Pssht,” said Hohemias, waving her free hand. “Those are fairy tales in truth, not what really happened.”

  “You know otherwise?” asked Elena.

  “I do. But I’m loath to speak on it.” She looked past them to where her grandson stood in the doorway. “Close the door and leave us alone, Hresko.”

  “Grandmother,” protested the man. “I’m the master of the house. Whatever you can say to our lord you can say to me.”

  “This tale’s not to be bandied about over cups of ale. Close the door, and no lurking on the landing as you used to do.”

  Hresko drew himself up. “It’s been thirty years since I ‘lurked’ on the landing, Grandma.”

  “The blink of an eye. Now off with you. You’re keeping our lord waiting.”

  Hresko bowed stiffly, closed the door, and presently the sound of his descending the steps could be heard.

  “Now,” said Hohemias, patting Elena’s hand. “Now I can share the tale. It’s been easier to let people think what they will then to tell them the truth.”

  “Branka’s version was bad enough,” said Hugh. “Yours is worse?”

  “I had it from my father, who was there that night.” Hohemias pursed her lips. “It’s a terrible tale. It colored my understanding of what we people are capable of. How far we can stray from the burning path.”

  Hugh crossed his arms and waited.

  Hohemias let out a long sigh and patted Elena’s hand again. “Well. Lady Szidora. Now that’s a name I’ve not said out loud in years. Lady Szidora. I believe my father was a little in love with her, and what’s more, my mother didn’t mind. I think everyone was. But she was wild. Came from Stasiek. Had trouble settling in such a remote place. Would drink, and my father said there were several scandals, of the more mundane kind.”

  Hohemias studied her quilt, picked at the stitching with her striated, yellowed nails. “Old memories. I can picture him now, telling my mother by the fireplace downstairs, not knowing I listened from the landing just outside this very room. But Lady Szidora. She fell in love with a bard who came through Erro. Something else, this young man was fair as the dawn and with a voice that could melt pewter. ‘Course, he weren’t no bard. He was a member of the fae. He came for Szidora. She dallied with him, it’s said, her husband blind with jealousy, but when he revealed his true nature, she spurned him. Said she’d rather fuck the dogs then bed a member of the fae.”

  “Oh no,” said Elena.

  “The bard was properly affronted and left. Szidora told her husband all, but it was too much for the castellan. He was seized with madness. A true rage. It had been bad enough when she’d been sleeping with regular men. But his wife, bedding a fae? Didn’t care for her protests. Didn’t listen. My father said he went mad. Before all the men he had her brought down to the cellar and there bound naked so that she couldn’t move. Ordered his men to smear her with food, and then closed the door and left her to the rats.”

  Hugh felt his innards knot with disgust. “But the fae army outside the walls?”

  “No fae army. My father was horrified. Said they could all hear her screams. He protested to the castellan, him and three other men. The castellan had them arrested for treason and placed in a cell.”

  Hohemias pursed her lips. “Three nights my father was trapped in that cell. Every night he heard Szidora scream. First night he said it was with rage. Second with fear. The third, he said it was with agony. The rats were eating her.”

  Anastasia let out a hiss of horror.

  “But the fae prince must have heard her screams. At the end of that third night, my father said he heard shouts from the walls. Said it sounded like they were being attacked. Then a terrible racket, which he later learned was the portcullis being brought down. Screams. Screams without number, all bleeding into each other like some horrid tapestry of sound. My father’s very words. But Szidora’d gone quiet hours before. The fae was too late. My father, he said he heard screams of rage come from below, after, and then the door to their cell was thrown open, and there he stood, the bard, all aflame, eyes like pools of fire, a sword like glowing silver in his hand. He demanded to know why they were there, chained up, and my father told him. Was sure his life was over. But the fae cut them free, blade slicing through manacles like they were nothing, and left.”

  Hohemias sighed. “The others wanted to flee the fort, but my father insisted o
n going down for Szidora. Said it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, going down those steps. He found her down there, in the dark. Still bound. But… dead. The rats. They did her in. Three nights, it must have took. His voice, how it shook when he told my mother. He said he’d never seen anything ghastlier. He fled, then, and never looked back. Left that place, and nobody returned to it thereafter.”

  “And the castellan?” asked Morwyn.

  “Nobody saw what happened to him. There were bodies everywhere. Most likely he died.”

  “No bones when I was there,” said Hugh. “No bones or weapons or anything.”

  Hohemias spread her withered palms, pulling her hand free of Elena’s grasp. “Don’t know what to tell you, my lord.”

  Nobody spoke. Elena stared down at the coverlet. Anastasia had her arms crossed, lips pursed. Morwyn was frowning out the window.

  “Thank you,” said Hugh. “That couldn’t have been easy to relate. We’ll leave you now.”

  “Old wounds, old evils,” said Hohemias. “People now, they tell it different. Interesting to ask why. But the truth. Nobody wants the truth, so I keep it to myself. I learned that young. But if you’re going back to that fort, then the Fate Maker preserve you, Fortuna smile on you, and the Breaker of Chains keep you free. You’ll need it.”

  “Yes. It sounds like we will.” Hugh inclined his head. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” said Hohemias as Elena rose.

  They filed out, made their way downstairs, parried Hresko’s questions, and left. Hugh led them up the street, weaving their way through the festivities, the darkness now being banished by the first torches, and up to the northern end of Erro, looping around to end upon the north bridge, just shy of the Mandroga Falls. There he leaned on the railing to stare at the square and its proceedings.

  The ritual would take place at midnight, or as close to it as Jarmoc could guess. The final hours leading up to that rite would turn bacchanalian, with what little restraint the townspeople had exhibited finally falling before their delirious desire to indulge in whatever joys and excesses they secretly nourished before being cleansed. At the last hour, they’d gather in the square, present themselves in concentric circles about the Fate Maker, with the most pious being closest, having claimed those circles instead of indulging. The closer to the Fate Maker, it was believed, the more potent his shriving. Those last to arrive, drunk and satiated, would form the far outer reaches of the circle, and receive the least of his blessing.