Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

by Linus de Beville

  When the bowl was empty the Journeyman lay back on the pile of furs feeling the warm glow of the broth in his middle. His stomach gurgled and the woman laughed. She patted him on his shoulder and stood to go.

  “What is your name, Lady?” asked the Journeyman.

  The woman paused.

  “Dafina,” she said, then turned away.

  The Journeyman watched Dafina go, exiting the hut through a thick door hinged with leather. After she had gone he stared at the door awhile then turned his attention to his surroundings.

  The rustic little structure in which he found himself, what he could see of it from his position on the floor, appeared to have been scratched out of the wilderness. Rough hewn timbers supported a ceiling made of thatch that was old but thick. The hut was small, but it contained a fireplace replete with a hearth, a mantle, and a firebox. Absent was the customary ring of stones set in the middle of the floor and accompanied by a hole in the ceiling to let out the smoke. This meant the hut had a chimney, and a chimney was a luxury that few common folk could afford. What did that mean then—rough cut timber framing and a full fireplace? Whoever this Master Olis was, he had at least some means at his disposal. His title seemed to indicate that he was a landholder or at least the ward of an estate.

  The Journeyman lay amidst the furs pondering on his saviors and his bizarre good fortune. These were civilized folk, of that there was no doubt, but where had he blundered after the fight at the watchtower? He wracked his brain, but was unable recall the names of any freeholds or settlements in this region of the Drakkenhuuls. With no answers coming to him the Journeyman shrugged and closed his eyes.

  9. CINDER

  It was early; the fire was low, and the world outside still dark. Sleep had fled from the Journeyman and he found himself awake despite the hour. A chill hung in the small hut. He shivered; the wound in his side throbbed at the movement, but did not howl. That was an improvement.

  Slowly the Journeyman raised himself from the pile of blankets and furs in which he was nestled. He stood naked in the center of the hut, his hands spread to the side, concentrating on maintaining his balance. When he was sure he would not topple over he relaxed and took a few steps towards a stool that stood near the reduced fire.

  At first the Journeyman thought the dark pile of fabric that sat upon the stool was an overly large cushion. When he touched the cloth the familiar weave told him that it was not a cushion at all but his tunic, trousers, and cloak. His boots, wallet, and pouch were not in evidence. He unfolded the garments and inspected them in the dim glow of the coals. The rips and tears sustained in his flight from the Huuls had been repaired. The garments had been washed as well. Whomever had done the washing had been careful not to strip the lanolin from the wool and the Journeyman nodded, impressed. Without further hesitation he dressed.

  The Journeyman was situated before the fire, watching the rosy glow of the log he had set upon the coals, when the door to the small hut scraped open. In the dancing light the Journeyman could just make out that the person who had entered was young and female. She was garbed much like Dafina had been, in a dress of homespun wool over which was hung a thick, earth-toned cloak. In her arms was a bundle of wood. The girl stopped short when she saw the Journeyman.

  “Hello,” said the Journeyman plainly.

  The girl said nothing.

  “Come in,” he said, and gestured towards the fire. “The night

  is always coldest just before the dawn. Please sit, warm yourself.” The girl hesitated for a moment, then shut the door behind her. With cautious steps she approached the place where the Journeyman perched on the three legged stool. Hesitantly, she scurried around behind him and placed the wood she had been carrying against the side of the fireplace. Dusting off her hands she again stood and regarded the man by the fire.

  “Are you Cinder?” asked the Journeyman.

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  “Dafina said she lay next to me with a girl named Cinder

  while I suffered from cold and exposure. If that was you then I owe you my thanks.” The girl looked down at her feet and clasped her hands in front of her apron. Her dark hair fell around her face, obscuring her features.

  “Come, please,” said the Journeyman, and again gestured that the girl should join him by the fire. She did so without raising her head. She knelt beside him and smoothed her skirts with hands that were red and chapped from the cold.

  “I am assuming, since you have not rebuked me, that you are Cinder?” asked the Journeyman.

  The girl nodded. Her hair bobbed as she did so. It shone in the firelight, the long tresses falling to the small of her back in a cascade of dark ringlets. Though her hair still hid her features, what little the Journeyman could see of her face was pleasant. “Very well,” said the Journeyman. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. I owe you quite a bit more than that actually; I owe you my life.”

  There was no response from the girl sitting next to him. The Journeyman crinkled his brow. He was beginning to suspect that no matter how many questions he asked there would be none. Still he pressed on, “Tell me, did you mend my clothes as well?”

  The girl shook her head ‘no.’

  “Was it Dafina?”

  A shake ‘yes,’ and then the girl wiped the back of one hand across her nose and sniffed.

  “It’s much better in here than out there, is it not?” asked the Journeyman. So saying he leaned over and cocked his head towards the young woman in an attempt to get a better look at her. She turned her face away, then abruptly stood up. The Journeyman sat back on the stool, a bit taken aback.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I did not mean to offend. Though, I confess, I’m not sure what it is I might have done.”

  Without a word the girl turned and left the hut, the door clattering shut behind her. The Journeyman shook his head and returned to gazing into the fire. He wondered what it was he could have said to agitate her, then dismissed the thought. He could guess a thousand times and still not happen upon the explanation. It was better to leave young women to their own devices.

  Clouds continued to stream across the sky, shrouding the peaks that loomed in the near distance. The Journeyman sat on a bench just outside the little hut and watched them swirl languidly about the rocky escarpments. Beside him sat Dafina.

  “I very much appreciate Master Olis returning my boots, but I am still vexed as to why he thinks it necessary to retain possession of my wallet and pouch. There are many things I should like to confirm I still posses. It would greatly hinder me if their contents had been…mislaid.”

  Dafina looked up at the Journeyman. On her lap was a basket, its contents covered with a cloth. She adjusted this cloth then turned and said, “I am sure Master Olis is keeping them in trust for you. Your belongings will be safe and you shall have them soon enough.”

  “Will I?” asked the Journeyman. His answer came in the form of a snuffling grunt from the pig that rooted about in the frozen mud a few meters from where he and Dafina sat. He gave a short laugh. “The pig doesn’t think so.”

  Dafina suppressed a smile.

  Laid out before the Journeyman were a series of pens fenced off by split timber rails. These pens were occupied by immense sows. Heavy with piglets, the snuffling beasts waddled to and fro nosing at the ground and rooting about with their oddly articulate snouts.

  The pigs, as the Journeyman had been told, were Master Olis’s primary source of income. He possessed hundreds of the animals, though many had been butchered this past autumn. The meat from the butchered hogs was now curing in row upon row of smokeries that sat behind the modest dwelling in which the Journeyman had convalesced. The smoke from the fires used to cure the meat drifted skyward to join with the low hanging clouds overhead.

  “Cinder came to see me this morning,” said the Journeyman.

  “Did she now?” asked Dafina.

  “She did,” replied the Journeyman. “Brought me some wood.”

  “Tha
t stands to reason,” said Dafina. “That is what she does.”

  “She fetches wood? Is that all?”

  Dafina shook her head and rolled her eyes puckishly. “No, that is not all she does, but it is most of what she does. She has a bed behind the hearth in the shed where the wood is stacked. During the night it’s her job to insure the smokeries are well supplied and that the men that keep the fires lit are fed.”

  “And does she provide any other services to these men? To Master Olis? She’s very pretty...”

  Dafina shot the Journeyman a sharp look, her expression suddenly fierce. “No, she does not. I will not have it.”

  The Journeyman nodded. “I think that is for the best. I was wondering if she had been…mistreated. Girls that suffer such abuse often refrain from speaking.”

  There was an understanding nod from Dafina. “She has never spoken. Whatever caused her muteness, it is nothing that happened here. When the floodwaters that consumed the Erstewald subsided she in turn came to us. We know not from what part of the forest she came, but she has never tried to leave. We call her Cinder for she will not tell us her name.”

  The Journeyman matched the matron’s understanding nod. Considering her position the girl’s name was rather apropos. Smoothing back his hair with one hand he gazed across the expanse of fences and pens before him. Not far off the head of a man could be seen bobbing above the rails.

  It was heartening to know that he was somewhere in the vicinity of the Erstewald. His flight through the snow had carried him further than he had first thought. This place, however, was nestled against the fells. This meant that he was not in the Erstwald proper, but somewhere on its southwestern periphery. He wondered how such a farmstead could exist so close to Huul territory. Before he could ponder this incongruity any further thought was snatched away.

  From across the series of interconnected pens came a shout and a curse. The Journeyman sat up and stared across the rough planking. The man he had seen earlier was perched on the top rail of one of the fences and shoving at a massive sow with his mudcaked boot. He was grizzled, his hair white, his chin marked by gray stubble. He was dressed in rags held together by straps of leather and knotted cords. Though fearsome in appearance he was obviously outmatched by the large swine.

  “Move, you massive cunt!” shouted the man, and kicked at the sow again.

  Dafina got to her feet. She dropped the basket next to the Journeyman saying, “This is your supper. After you have eaten come to the house. Master Olis would like to speak with you. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to stop Ubel before he injures another pig.”

  With that Dafina was off. The Journeyman watched her go then turned his attention to the basket. As the matron began to add her own voice to the cries of the man on the fence he lifted the cloth that covered it. Inside were two small loaves of bread, some hard cheese, and a few slices of smoked ham. The Journeyman took the cheese from the basket and began to nibble.

  10. MASTER OLIS

  The atmosphere in the hall had gone tense and all conversation had ceased. Master Olis sat on the edge of his curule chair, one hand propped on the surface of the table, the other holding a two pronged fork on which was skewered a wad of pork. He looked askance at the Journeyman, his pendulous jowls quivering, his teeth grinding. Spittle coated his lips, which were curled up to show small, oddly spaced teeth.

  “You, whom I found freezing to death in the snow, who only lives thanks to my graciousness, come into my hall and accuse me of theft? Such an insult is galling, and if given by a man not under guild protection, would cost him his life!”

  “All I asked, Master Olis,” said the Journeyman evenly, “is why you still retain possession of my wallet and my messenger’s pouch.”

  Master Olis pounded the table and the pork wad jumped from his fork onto its worn and pitted surface. Grease splashed across the boards but the fat man did not seem to notice. He simply sat in his ornately carved chair glaring at the Journeyman.

  “I have kept them safe under lock and key until you were well enough to receive them,” hissed Mater Olis. “This is yet another kindness I have extended to you. Such ingratitude you’ve shown me...” and he shook his head, eyes downcast.

  A bit overly dramatic, thought the Journeyman, this veneer of wounded pride and blustering self-righteousness. He wondered what it was the fat man was trying to conceal. Was it something as simple as a desire to rob him? There was contents of the purse he had received from Thane. Though a tidy sum, it wasn’t much compared with the revenue from a farmhold in the Erstewald. On the other hand, a Journeyman carried communiqués, missives, and documents of no small import. The Journeyman Guild owed allegiance to no one monarch, city-state, or even empire, hence the free passage they received. To some, however, the temptation to acquire that which a Journeyman carried was worth the penalty such an action carried. Official documents, especially those of a sensitive nature, could potentially be worth a king’s ransom. The Journeyman thought it likely that the corpulent fellow had squirreled away his personal effects with the hope that he could sell whatever documents the Journeyman was transporting. It was too bad for Master Olis that he carried none.

  The Journeyman did not alter his posture, or react to the pig farmer’s new outburst. He remained where he was, lounging in a plain handcrafted chair, his booted foot on the table. It felt good to stretch his wounded side, albeit gently, and it was an added benefit that his posture appeared brash and, perhaps, even a bit impertinent.

  Master Olis leaned towards the Journeyman, his piggy eyes narrowing. “What do you have to say for yourself, Journeyman?”

  In a flat and humorless monotone the Journeyman said, “I’m feeling much better. Rested. Sprightly even. Considering this I would like for my effects to be returned so that I may be on my way. I would like them now.”

  At this the fat man snorted and scowled. In truth the Journeyman felt far from sprightly, but he was certainly not going to say so in front of the pig farmer. From the moment he had entered the hall, the Journeyman had known that this was a man who would be more of a hindrance than anything else. He was a man who would find insult in the smallest of things, whether intended

  JOURNEYMAN IN GRAY or not, and who would cover his vast reservoir of insecurities and failings with false bravado and perhaps even outright aggression. In the Journeyman’s estimation, Master Olis was naught but a petty tyrant. No different really than the liege lords that paid him to covey simpering pleas for ever greater and greater loans and subsidies from the Hegemony. Loans they had no intention of repaying. These men lined their own pockets with the ever increasing taxes levied by the Empire, giving nothing in return. In his estimation the pig farmer would fit perfectly amidst their ranks.

  “Now,” repeated the Journeyman.

  “You will get them in the morning!” bellowed Master Olis. “Or do you intend to leave in the dead of night without offering compensation for the food you’ve eaten, the hut you’ve slept in?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said the Journeyman.

  “Good,” replied Master Olis, matching the Journeyman’s tone. The two stared at each other for a moment then, at the top of his lungs, he bellowed, “Girl, bring me ale!”

  Cinder started. The Journeyman’s gaze flickered to where the young woman had been standing, tucked away in the far corner of the hall. She was barely visible amidst the shadows and seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the dark. She hesitated and Master Olis cried out again for his drink.

  Scurrying forward with an earthenware pitcher clutched in her slight hands Cinder stopped just short of the fat man’s elbow and tipped the contents of the decanter into Master Olis’s tankard. She did so expertly, without spilling a drop. When her vessel was empty, and the pig farmer’s full, Cinder stepped back.

  Before she could return to her place in the corner Master Olis reached out one sausage fingered hand and seized the girl by the elbow. At his touch Cinder jumped, nearly dropping her jug. Despite her obv
ious fright no sound escaped her lips.

  “When I tell you to come, girl, you come,” rasped Master Olis. “Do not make me call twice. Do so again and I will let the men have you for the night. Dafina can yell and scream all she likes, but you will be well used and well disciplined. Do you understand me, girl?”

  Cinder shook her head vigorously in the affirmative. “Well used?” asked the Journeyman chidingly. “That’s an interesting way of putting it. Not exactly gentlemanly of you.” The pig farmer turned back to the Journeyman, his eyes shooting daggers at the tall, raven-haired man. The Journeyman went on, “It seems I’ve displeased you far more than this girl here. Perhaps your men would like to ‘use’ me? I’m sure that if they pried open my stitches they could slide their cocks into my side, thereby keeping their souls clean of the sin of sodomy.” For a long while the Journeyman and Master Olis sat glaring at one another. At last the fat man said in a tone so low it barely registered over the crackle of the fire, “Your personal effects will be brought to you minus those coins I will take as payment for your stay. You will leave my estate upon the morrow and you are never to return. Do so and, guild or no, I will have Ubel cut your throat. Now, be gone from my table!”

  The Journeyman nodded, then rose to his feet. He strode to the door set into the side of the hall, though the action hurt his wound terribly. He hoped his attitude appeared brash and confident; not like the posturing of a wounded man who is trying his best to put on airs.

  To the left of the door stood Ubel. He looked as grizzled in the soft glow of the fire as he had in the harsh light of day. The ugly, unshaven little man sneered as he passed and sucked his teeth. The Journeyman paid him no mind.

  Pausing with his hand on the door latch the Journeyman half turned, his face hidden by shadows. Flatly he said, “Your pigs, Master Olis…you’ve a kinship with them. Not just in appearance but in manner as well. I can see why you’ve been so successful as a swineherd.”