Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

by Linus de Beville

  “It’s strange, how quickly spring arrives in the Erstewald,” said the Journeyman without turning to meet Drysden’s gaze.

  “Yes,” granted Drysden, “but it will vanish just as quickly. The snow will return and the new growth will freeze. You’ve been through here before Journeyman; you know well the temperamental nature of this forest.”

  The Journeyman nodded. “I do. And that begs the question why do you want it so badly? After the floods the Hegemony abandoned the region. Since then there has been unrest amongst the populace, raids by Huuls and Horselords, to say nothing of the loss of almost all agriculture and industry. It has proven far too costly to maintain stewardship of the Erstewald, even for the Imperium. They have abandoned it in all ways but in name. Why would the lords of the Vallén wish to seek ownership of so contentious a place?”

  For a time Drysden seemed to contemplate his answer. He stood beside the Journeyman and stared out at the ranks of trees that faded into the distant wall of clouds. The wind rustled the fine cloak he wore and tousled his dark hair. At last he said, “The buds, those we see now covering the trees, are small, fragile. They cling to branches that are brittle and likely to break with the first of the heavy spring snows. They are very much like the people of this place. They too cling tenuously to the life they’ve been given. The storm is larger then they, larger than even you or I. It is likely to sweep them aside like frozen buds on a dead branch.”

  “If the Vallén lays claim to the Erstewald more than just its people will suffer,” said the Journeyman.

  “That is true,” said Drysden, “but here you have an opportunity to see that at least a few of these buds do not fall victim to the tempest. Besides, as I have said, you will not break the oath you swore to your Guild. You will not be siding with the Vallén any more than with the Imperium.”

  “You assume that I care,” said the Journeyman.

  Drysden raised an eyebrow.

  Not wishing to press the subject the Journeyman turned away. The weight of Drysden’s words hung heavily about him. He did not care for the sudden change in the young noble’s demeanor, nor his thinly veiled allusions to the clash of nations. He was a Journeyman, a courier; the affairs of state should not be his concern.

  With a sigh he made to leave.

  “Hold.”

  The single word was not a direct command, but authoritative nonetheless. The Journeyman turned and regarded the young noble with a look of incredulity.

  “Let me show you something,” said Drysden and gestured that the Journeyman should follow. With a shrug he did so.

  The gibbet swayed gently in the breeze, creaking as it moved to and fro. Fastened to the timber barricade by a stout yardarm, it stood just outside one of the smaller gates that lead into the trade city. The cage was clearly visible from the rutted and muddy track that lead from the gate and into the forest beyond. Condensation dripped from the banded iron lattice; the metal itself was rusty, its surface pitted and scarred. Despite this corrosion the construct appeared solid. The corpse that languished inside certainly had not been able to free itself.

  “Who was he?” asked the Journeyman.

  “His name was Iker,” replied Drysden.

  “Unusual for these parts.”

  “Yes,” nodded the young noble, “he was a foreigner. For

  nearly a year after the floods he, along with several others, raided and murdered their way across the Erstewald. It took a concerted effort to bring him to justice. He and his men managed to kill several of my soldiers in the process. I could say that I respect him for his fortitude and tenacity, if I hadn’t been the one to deal with the aftermath of his crimes.”

  The Journeyman turned from Drysden to once again gaze at the hanging corpse. It was thin, ragged, its limbs shrunken, the remaining flesh pecked by crows. Rags hung from the skeletal frame, sodden and dark with moisture. The face of the corpse, of Iker, leered from between the bars. Its empty eye-sockets stared sightlessly, forlornly, while its mouth was turned up in a petulant grin. Despite the man’s fate the Journeyman thought the skeleton bore a look that was mocking and sardonic. Even in death it appe-ared as though he still thumbed his nose at those that had brought him to heel.

  “You see,” continued Drysden, “when the Drakkenhuuls loosed their fury on this place the Hegemony was embroiled in a crusade to acquire more of their beloved spice. The narcotic incense they inhale consumes them, holds sway over their hearts and minds. They feared their supply would not last the winter. They hired mercenaries, hundreds of them, and sent them into the swamps far to the south. These men were charged with discovering the secret to harvesting and distilling the spice. They were ordered to cut a swath across the Marshmen’s territory until the little savages divulged their secrets. When none of the mercenaries returned, the Hegemony nearly collapsed in upon itself.”

  “I have heard the stories,” interjected the Journeyman. “The Vallén has spies within the Hegemony’s inner circle. The information they provide is not mere rumor or here-say. These individuals have born witness to the craven actions of those that rule the Imperium. They have seen the degradations to which the Hegemony subjects those who owe them fealty. In exchange for tithes and bribes they bestow approbations and titles; they grant large tracts of land, fortresses, and slaves. To those sycophants who best curry their favor they make great shows of wealth. All others starve. The governance of the Imperium is as rotten as the minds of the half-men that rule over it.”

  The Journeyman turned from the young noble and the hanging corpse. He gazed out at the forest, the swaying branches, and the drifting clouds. A small train of wagons was making its way slowly from the treeline. The drovers sat hunched in their wagon boxes, their cloaks sodden. The oxen that drew the carts were splattered with grime, the mud coating their legs, and underbellies. It was a familiar sight, one the Journeyman had seen the continent over. No matter where he had journeyed, no matter what monarch, prince, or council ruled, the people went about their business as best they could. They endured the hardships that come with carving out a living and taking from the land what few things they needed to survive. He wondered if Drysden, with his fine clothes and finer weapon, was aware of the people over whom he held sovereignty. Did the presence of these peasants penetrate his thoughts of statecraft and the machinations of empire? His words seemed to suggest he did, but the Journeyman had his doubts.

  The train of wagons continued to wend its way laboriously up the muddy track. The Journeyman watched them come, his face implacable. The young noble glanced towards the approaching men and oxen then back to the Journeyman.

  “After the floods, when the people of the Erstewald sent envoys to the Hegemony, they were turned away without being granted so much as an audience. They had nothing to offer; no gold, no silver, no narcotic incense. All they had was a plea for succour, for aid. The Erstewald had drowned, its towns and greathouses swept away. There was nothing here the Hegemony wanted.

  “When those same envoys came to us, the lords of the Vallén, we saw in their plight an opportunity. We sent food and craftsmen, livestock and raw materials. Troops were provided in order to push the Huuls, the Horselords, and the bandits from the forest. In exchange we asked only that the people of the Erstewald swear their loyalty to those who had been their saviors. In our estimation this exchange was equitable.”

  The Journeyman turned his attention from the approaching peasants. Locking eyes with Drysden he said coldly, “These oaths were given in secret. If that were not the case then the Hegemony would have marched upon the Erstewald months ago. Whether they abandoned the people of this place in their time of need makes no difference to them. If you openly declare the annexation of the Erstewald then the lords of the Vallén invite open war.”

  “We’re counting on it,” said Drysden. His gaze still level with the Journeyman’s he added, “War will come whether you wish it to or not. Speak with the lords of the Vallén. Do this not for yourself, but for the two women who pulled you
from the snow and then from the fire. Do this for the fools that are making their way up the road as we speak. Do this lest even more blood is unnecessarily spilled.”

  “And what would I say?” asked the Journeyman. “How would my words have any bearing on this state of affairs?”

  “All you need do is tell the truth,” replied Drysden. “When you are ready, come to the council’s meeting hall. We shall be waiting.”

  So saying, Drysden clapped the Journeyman a second time on the shoulder, then strode from the gibbet. The Journeyman watched the young officer as he entered the narrow gate then returned his attention to the train of ox-carts. Raising one hand he made his way in their direction saying, “Gentlemen, a word if I may?”

  17. THE TOWER

  Lyvys lay sprawled across the Vyrnon’s floodplain, the river cutting through the center of the rustic metropolis. The pointed roofs and tall chimneys of the city’s ramshackle buildings were crammed together in jumbled ranks. Smoke issued from these chimneys, gray and listless. It drifted skyward to join the low hanging clouds, further obscuring the far corners of the city. From this vantage the people moving between the houses looked to be no more than insects.

  Cinder stood beside him, the tower’s great bronze bell swaying behind her. She watched as the smoke coiled upwards, face to the wind, her hair tossed by the breeze. The Journeyman regarded the young woman as she in turn gazed out across the trade city.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked. “Do you need my cloak?” To his ears his words sounded wooden and stale. His heart beat loudly in his chest. He swallowed, his throat making an anxious little click. If only he could be as calm and collected around this girl as he was in the presence of lords, ladies, generals, and mercenaries. He had stood before the Imperial court and had felt little besides boredom. In the presence of this mute young woman his pulse raced, his hands sweated, and his mouth was dry.

  Cinder turned to him and smiled, her cheeks dimpling. She then returned to gazing out over the city. “I’ve heard that this is the highest place in Lyvys,” said the Journeyman. “If the day were clear you could see as far as the Drakkenhuuls.”

  Cinder smiled again and nodded. “Dafina…she’s recovering?” asked the Journeyman. “She will not see me. When I call upon her the nurses send me away.”

  Cinder gave a non-committal shrug and shook her head.

  “Will you not speak to me?” the Journeyman asked. “I was told that you screamed and screamed when you were turned from the Vallénci outpost. Why remain silent?”

  Cinder turned to the Journeyman again. Her dark hair, now washed and combed, blew about her face and shoulders. She smiled and brushed a few strands from where they had caught between her lips. She then lifted one hand and touched the Journeyman’s cheek. Her fingers rasped in the stubble that covered his jaw.

  With a sigh the Journeyman lifted Cinders fingers from his face. He held her hand for a moment then let it slide from his grasp. “It might have been better for you and Dafina both if you had let me die from my wounds.”

  Cinder, her brow furrowing, shook her head ‘no.’

  “Wait until you hear what I would ask of you, then tell me if saving my life was worth your while.”

  Reproachfully Cinder gave his shoulder a push. The Journeyman winced, feeling a tug at the stitches in his side. A week ago he would have been in danger of tearing the wound open. Now, the gash had begun to knit in earnest. Considering what lay ahead he found this reassuring.

  A worried look had spread across Cinder’s face. It pained the Journeyman to see the quiet cheerfulness of a moment ago dispersed. He wished, futilely, that he had not dragged Cinder or Dafina into this conflict. Since it was their misfortune to have crossed his path all he could do was try and extricate them with as little fuss as possible.

  Taking Cinder by her shoulders the Journeyman bent low and peered into her dark eyes. She linked several times then returned

  LINUS DE BEVILLE his stare, her brow still furrowed.

  “You and Dafina must go. I know the soldiers from the

  Vallén have taken good care of you; they’ve fed you, and clothed

  you, and given you a fine place to stay. Soon that will all change.

  I’ve made arrangements for the two of you to depart Lyvys with a

  train of ox-carters. I’ve paid them well for your safekeeping. They

  care not whether the Hegemony or the lords of the Vallén rule here

  in the Erstewald. I believe they can be trusted.”

  Cinder pulled from the Journeyman’s grasp and backed away.

  She didn’t stop until she met the bell tower’s railing. She looked at

  him with large, disbelieving eyes, her expression one of shock and

  of repudiation. Raising one hand to her mouth Cinder’s chest

  hitched. The Journeyman saw that tears now stained her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I did not mean for you to become embroiled in this…mess with Drysden and the Vallén. If I had…” With a sudden rush Cinder closed the space between them,

  wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and pressed her lips to his.

  She kissed him roughly, almost desperately. Then, just as suddenly,

  she drew back.

  For a few shocked moments the Journeyman stood with his

  head spinning. Feeling the pliant warmth of her breasts against his

  chest, color rose in his cheeks. Cinder raised delicate fingers and

  brushed his thin lips. He blinked, his eyes regaining focus. Pointing first to herself, then to him, Cinder looked earnestly

  up at the Journeyman. She repeated the gesture, this time more

  swiftly. When he still did not stir she raised herself on her toes,

  grasped his collar, and kissed him again. She then hit him in the

  chest with one hand while patting her left breast.

  Realization dawned.

  “No,” he said, “I’m not finishing with you.” He wrapped his

  arms around her and drew her in close.

  She sobbed once then, wiping tears from her cheeks, regained

  her composure. She nestled her head against his chest and the

  Journeyman held her all the tighter.

  “I can’t think of any other way…” He trailed off.

  Breaking the embrace the Journeyman again held the darkhaired young woman at arms length. “I’m not sending you away because I do not want you. I’m sending you away because war is coming to the Erstewald. War is coming and I would not see you or Dafina again placed in harm’s way. This is the only way I can

  think to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

  Fresh tears ran down Cinder’s cheeks; nonetheless she stood

  and nodded her understanding.

  Raising one hand the Journeyman caressed the dark locks at

  Cinder’s temple. She took his hand and kissed the palm. She then

  pressed it to her breast.

  It took all of his willpower to withdraw his hand. “We must go,” said the Journeyman.

  18. THE COUNCIL

  “In answer to your first question; the pig farmer will be hung in tomorrow morning,” said the councilman. “The charge is collaboration with the Huuls. The evidence given shows that he’s been bribing the barbarians for years. He provided them with swine and they in turn refrained from killing him and burning down his farmhold. The Huul that was captured will join him on the gallows. As for your second query…Drysden will be here momentarily. All will be made clear upon his arrival.”

  “I was told he would be waiting for me,” said the Journeyman. “Worry not, he will be here soon enough,” the councilman replied and said no more.

  The Journeyman looked from the councilman to the other magistrates. They sat along one side of the meeting hall’s single piece of furnishing, a longtable carved in an archaic motif. They were a sour and wizened lot, all possessed of gray hair and long beards. Diffuse light seeped through narrow windows se
t high along the wall behind the seven men. Motes of dust drifted languidly within the emaciated shafts. The wan light did little to cheer the unpropitious atmosphere.

  From floor to ceiling the council chamber was made of dark wood, chiselled into the same patterns that adorned the table. No tapestries were hung from the walls and few candles or braziers were in evidence. Come night the place would be as dark and foreboding as a crypt. Even in the light of day the Journeyman thought the meeting hall a dour and disagreeable sort of place.

  Breaking the uncomfortable silence that had crept into the pause in the stilted conversation the Journeyman said, “I cannot say that I am sorry to hear of Olis’s fate.”

  Having nothing to say to the council beyond a few questions he had already asked, the Journeyman found Drysden’s absence particularly irritating.

  “No, we did not think you would be,” said the councilman. “Especially considering the way you were treated.”

  The Journeyman opened his mouth to respond, but the words died in his throat.

  “It would take far more than a few scrapes and bruises to bring this one low.” The voice was deep and resonant, carrying more than a hint of authority. It was accompanied by the tromp of booted feet and a gust of wind.

  Turning, disbelief writ large across his face, the Journeyman gaped at the newcomer. With sure, even strides the man made his way into the meeting hall, his slate gray cloak streaming behind him. Backlit by the open door the man took up a position to the Journeyman’s right. The newcomer then turned and fixed the Journeyman with dark, smoldering eyes.

  “Shut your mouth before something flies into it,” said the man.

  “Guildmaster,” said the Journeyman deferentially and shut his mouth.

  The man continued to stare. The Journeyman looked on, his head cocked to one side.