by J. S. Crews
In all truth, men going rogue was not so unusual an occurrence. The Northern Realm was a hard land, where poor luck at farming a couple of seasons in a row could ruin you. There wasn’t as much work as in the larger cities of the south for a man to try his hand at if he failed in his first profession. It did seem unusual to run across so many possible instances in so short a time. The mere mentioning of the subject had caused him an unexpected moment of disquiet.
All such philosophical thought was quickly overridden, however, by the need to cajole his unruly horse into resuming movement.
* * * * *
There was a feast of sorts that evening, meager though it was. They had ridden straight up to what was clearly the home of the village Headman, built of logs like the communal Haven and larger than the gaggle of wattle-and-daub huts. Their purpose had been to announce their presence as a courtesy before presuming to set up camp on village land, but it proved unnecessary since the entire community came pouring out of their little thatch-roofed homes as the column approached.
The Headman directed them toward a patch of newly-cleared common pasture adjacent to the village for their camp, and Jonas thought he had sensed relief wash over his face when the Lieutenant informed him the patrol members carried their own rations and would only need to impose on his people for use of their well. These folks seemed to be doing well enough, yet likely had little to spare. All things being the same, Jonas was also aware that would not have kept them from sharing what they had in observance of ancient laws of hospitality.
Temple teachings spoke of The Weary Traveler, an old man turned away from shelter during a terrible storm by people called the Greedy Ones. The next morning they had found no sign of him but for a strange symbol painted in what appeared to be blood upon the boundary stone of their lands, clearly visible despite the heavy rains that should have washed it away. Nor was there any earthly explanation for why they could not remove it or for why it disappeared on its own only after the Greedy Ones all died horribly of a pox over the following weeks. The explanation, the temple priests taught, was not an earthy one at all: The Weary Traveler, they said, had been no mere old man but rather the god Kharanus in human form, and the Greedy Ones had been cursed by him.
Jonas knew the people of this tiny village would have shared whatever necessary to see them fed and sheltered because of that tradition, even if it had meant dipping into their own precious grain supply and inviting the men to sleep under their own roofs. Even knowing they had their own food, the Headman had still insisted they share in a hearty venison stew with wild leeks and nettles, and Lieutenant Taegan agreed so as not to offer insult in the face of such generosity.
In addition to the observance of sacred traditions, Jonas could not help but sense something more. Lying awake in his bedroll that night, he realized what he had been sensing: these people seemed unusual pleased by their visit, which even one as inexperienced as he recognized as a rare reaction to a group of soldiers descending on a community unheralded. But then, were he a simple farmer or keeper of sheep, he supposed he too would be happy for anything beyond the ordinary. In fact, he admired their ability to milk joy from something so mundane as the temporary company of new faces.
* * * * *
The events of the following morning did nothing to lessen Jonas’s resolve about what he had sensed. The village folk not only seemed glad to have their hospitality imposed upon, but were also none too happy to see the patrol depart. As they prepared to leave, the Headman—an amiable enough fellow of no overwhelming wit named Brunni—approached Lieutenant Taegan again about looking into the possibility of bandits in the hills. Obviously, this was something that had been talked about behind closed doors among the villagers. Suddenly, the happiness Jonas had sensed over the patrol’s visit took on a much darker light: these people were afraid.
To his credit, Taegan must have sensed the same, because he stopped himself short of denying the request offhandedly. Instead, he simply nodded and asked, "Who’s responsible fer this land?"
"Sir Gottrey’s got ‘is towerhouse ‘bout ten miles down yonder path there. You lot’ll pass it if yer headed back Newport way."
"Him ‘n’ his men don’t patrol down here?"
"Aye, some. His men always ‘ave, least ways. Sir Gottrey ‘imself has gone an’ got a bit long in the tooth fer swingin’ a sword these past few years, so he’s got others t’do that piece o’ his work now. His son always saw t’us. Sir Percey. We’ve not seen ‘im or none o’ his blokes fer better’n a moonturn, though."
Lieutenant Taegan thought on that for another moment, then nodded again. He swung himself up into the saddle and said, "Can’t make no promises, but me ‘n’ mine’ll look into things," and with that he rode off, the others spurring their beasts to follow.
Jonas and Alastar, taking blatant advantage of the fact they were yet to be given anything to do, adjusted their speed to catch up to the Lieutenant, who was riding alone in the vanguard position. Both were wise enough to see the danger; the worst thing a soldier without a current assignment could do was demonstrate idleness in front of a superior, who would no doubt quickly find them a task, even if one had to be manufactured. Their smartest path would have been to linger quietly in the rear, out of sight of both Lieutenant Taegan and Sergeant Hammid, but curiosity overcame their laziness.
Reining in on either side of the patrol commander, Jonas asked, "Are we really going to look for bandits?"
It took the Lieutenant a moment to voice a reply, during which Jonas began to wish he hadn’t asked the question because of the circumspect glance with which the older officer graced him. Finally, he replied, "If this was a tavern bet, my silver’d be on the side arguin’ there prob’ly ain’t no bandits."
"But there could be," Alastar put in.
"Aye, there could be. Y’know what else there could be out there? A million other things, that’s what. Or nothin’ at all. D’you youngins know what bandits do? They rob folks. Sometimes they kill ‘em too, but mostly they rob ‘em, an’ even the ones who do kill folks mess up sometimes an’ folks get away. An’ when folks get robbed or almost killed, they tell other folks an’ their lords, lookin’ t’squeeze a little justice out of an unjust world.
"So," he continued, "I’m imaginin’ a big ol’ ring o’ bandits up in them hills, big enough t’be huntin’ out all the game so there was nothin’ left fer the wolves, would be causin’ havoc with a lot more’n wildlife, an’ the news o’ all that trouble would be travelin’. The Duke’s court hadn’t had no word o’ anythin’ like that. I’d know if they had ‘cause I’d probably be part o’ the force sent out here t’hunt ‘em. None o’ these little lords or landed knights out ‘ere got enough men t’tackle a force that big, so they’d be callin’ fer the Duke’s men, believe you me."
“Those people seemed genuinely afraid. They were sorry to see us go,” Jonas pointed out.
“Aye,” agreed Taegan, “I felt that too. But wolves’re a good thing t’be scared of, ‘specially bold ones.” Knowing that Jonas had meant something else and sensing the boy was gathering himself to say so, the patrol commander added, “Ya have t’understand these country folk. They’re good people but suspicious, and they’re always lookin’ fer ways t’add excitement t’their lives. Crops go bad or livestock git sick an’ they’re all out lookin’ fer what witch cursed ‘em or sacrificin’ perfectly healthy stock under the light o’ the moons t’try an’ appease the gods in the old ways. Same thing here: Wolves attackin’ where they shouldn’t be? O’ course, must be bandits in the wilderness eatin’ up all the does ‘n’ hares.”
"But," Alastar interjected again, "could some miscreants not be up there, in truth, but be hiding instead of robbing travelers and causing alarm to spread?"
The Lieutenant shook his head, his face screwed up in an expression that made it clear he was wondering whether the younger generation of the nobility might not have been born daft or dropped on their heads. "Why would anyone do that?"
A single thought suddenly popped into Jonas’s mind, and it was one that filled him with an immediate dread, the precipitous and soul-sinking intensity of which he could not explain even to himself. Without even meaning to, he mumbled aloud, "Staying hidden. Waiting for something."
"What?" asked the Lieutenant.
Startled by the question, since he had not really been meaning to voice what he was thinking, Jonas raised his eyes from where they had been locked on nothing in particular and began trying to compose a more sensible way of expressing his thoughts. Just then, though, Alastar interrupted, "Outlaws, perhaps?" Both Taegan and Jonas looked his way.
He continued, "It would be in the best interests of wanted men to remain hidden and not draw the attention of the army onto themselves. There could be a whole colony of them up there, piled in like rats, stripping the land bare and causing this problem with the wolves, could there not be?"
Lieutenant Taegan was still shaking his head, all thought of what Jonas had said forgotten. "Again, we can’t know," said the Lieutenant with ill-hidden exasperation evident in his tone, "but I’d wager it’s doubtful half a hundred outlaws’re jus’ gonna suddenly decide t’go live in the woods t’gether like faerie elves. The smart odds say what’s goin’ on out ‘ere is just what it looks like: a rogue wolf pack needin’ t’be hunted down."
"So we’re hunting?" Jonas asked.
"Mayhaps," was the reply. "I d’know yet. First thing we’re doin’ is payin’ a visit t’this Sir Gottrey t’get more information, an’ I’ll decide our next course after that."
* * * * *
A bit later, the patrol arrived at the towerhouse of Sir Gottrey Wakefield to find things not as they should be.
Sir Gottrey was a landed knight, acting as petty lord over the lands nearby and the village that filled the little valley below where his stone towerhouse sat on a small rise. The peasants worked the fields and paid their taxes to him, and he would then be beholden to the local baron, to whom he paid homage and military service, though—being elderly and apparently no longer patrolling his own lands—it would be his son and heir, this Sir Percey whose name they’d heard, who would likely lead their forces if they were called to war.
The towerhouse itself was elongated, the main structure consisting of a single story. For all intents and purposes, there was little to distinguish it from any other long, skinny house, except it was built of stone with a shingled roof, both of which were unmistakable signs of wealth. The other distinguishing feature, of course, was the tower itself, attached to one end of the rectangular building and rising forty or fifty feet above the roof gable of the lower house.
Something immediately seemed off to Jonas, despite the idyllic nature of the scene, but he kept that to himself. He knew that were he to express the thought aloud, the Lieutenant would no doubt want an explanation, and he had none to give. It was nothing more substantial than a curious sense of unease, and he knew he would sound like a fool trying to express it openly.
It was not that anything seemed immediately out of place; quite the contrary, in fact. The snug little cottages mingled in their valley, not terribly unlike those in the village that hosted the patrol the previous night, except their quality seemed somewhat more fine. People could be seen going about their daily chores. Thin tendrils of smoke rose lazily from many a chimney, carried aloft on the same breeze that had Sir Gottrey’s banner fluttering in its grasp.
"Is that a turnip on that banner?" asked Alastar as they halted momentarily at the top of a little rise. His tone had carried with it more than a hint of incredulous humor.
"Aye," responded Sergeant Hammid, "an’ a head o’ cabbage, looks like."
"Why would any knight have a turnip on his banner?" Alastar was still dubious.
"Or cabbages?" asked Jonas.
"You lot’d be better at answerin’ that than the likes o’ me. I’m jus’ one o’ the grunts who marches behind the damn things. Man must grow some fine turnips ‘n’ cabbages he’s proud of, I’d wager."
They started down the gently sloping path, and Jonas figured there was a good chance he was correct. Nearly every visible patch of ground in the valley that wasn’t part of the hard-packed dirt road or the foundations of a cottage was growing agricultural goods, and even from this distance he could see that most of it wasn’t grain. These people, it appeared, grew only enough cereal crops to keep themselves fed, the majority of their industry going towards producing other foodstuffs. There also appeared to be a couple of small fields dedicated to producing hay for at least a couple of horses. A quick glance had confirmed for them, however, that the small stables built alongside the towerhouse were empty. That told them Sir Percey, at least, was not at home.
Unlike the previous village which had welcomed them warmly, this one was rank with an unsettling quality, which went far beyond Jonas’s initial feeling. Instead of greeting them, the villagers quickly scooted indoors. It wasn’t as though they feared being harmed; they did not scatter and run away. Rather, they simply seemed unusually wary for folks living in an area that knew mostly peace. They had stared suspiciously, half hidden in darkened doorways and behind drawn shutters as the column made its way toward the knight’s towerhouse, and so Lieutenant Taegan motioned in the negative about questioning them.
As the patrol reached the apex of the little rise, the Lieutenant dismounted and stepped toward the door. Wordlessly, Sergeant Hammid accompanied him, though he made an abrupt gesture in the negative when Jonas and Alastar made to do likewise. They alone went to announce the column’s presence, the others all remaining ahorse, glaring into the darkened recesses of the small stables and the green wood that covered the periphery of the hillside.
It took a few heartbeats for Jonas to notice that all of them were keeping their hands close by the hilts of their shortswords. Something is wrong here, he thought. Even the villagers and these men can feel it. Glancing over at his friend, he could see that Alastar had noticed as well, and he found himself suddenly needing to swallow hard to clear the nervous lump forming in his throat. Almost without thought, he mimicked the soldiers by reaching for the reassurance of having his fingers wrapped around a weapon.
He was amazed, in fact, just how much better he did feel as his skin brushed lightly against the leathern wrappings of the weapon’s hilt. Even that calming comfort, however, did little to keep him from nearly jumping out of his skin when the heavy knocker affixed to the door suddenly banged against the strike plate with a resounding clack. Three or four times over, the Lieutenant berated the iron knocker as the boy chanced a look around to make sure no one had noticed he had been startled.
It was then that they were suddenly accosted by the visage of a chubby face appearing out of nowhere in the center of the heavy wooden door. "Who’s there? Who... who troubles this house?" It was a small sort of viewing plate, set alongside the knocker, and made to slide open so those inside could see and converse with someone outside without opening the door. It was, more or less, at eye level, though the eyes peeking out just now barely cleared the lowest rim of the opening.
It took the Lieutenant a few seconds to recover and answer, "Patrol outta Newport, carryin’ Duke Valdimir’s writ, here t’see the knight responsible fer these lands."
Jonas knew that was likely a calculated move. A writ from a High Lord guaranteed virtually unquestioned cooperation, because it was a way of signifying that the person in possession of the writ was carrying out that High Lord’s business and was not to be impeded. Whether or not Lieutenant Teagan actually carried such a writ was something of which he was unaware, but he was nevertheless impressed by the soldier demonstrating such unexpected savvy.
Apparently, the boy was not the only one who took note, because the pasty forehead that was clearly visible through the little trapdoor creased in frustration. It disappeared with a loud clack as the peek-through was slid shut, and the door seemed to become whole again. They could hear the heavy bracing bar being removed. Odd that he would have his door bra
ced and bolted with the sun still high in the sky. Definitely something wrong here, the boy was thinking as the door swung inward to reveal an interior thick with shadows.
It must have been the tense atmosphere, but Jonas couldn’t help but to look at the murkiness beyond the portal with dread. He quickly wiped such thoughts from his mind, however, angry at himself for having unconsciously tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon. Shaking his head and exhaling slowly, he chided himself and felt even more the fool when the open threshold was quickly filled by the corpulent form of a man whose head would barely come to the level of Jonas’s chest, even at his young age.
The man greeting them was the furthest thing from threatening. In addition to being more than a head shorter than any of the men in their party, he was also fat and looked to be nearer seventy summers in age than fifty. His hair, what little remained, was bone white as were his magnificent muttonchop sideburns, which accounted for the entirety of his facial hair since he had no beard or mustache. His skin was pasty like bread dough. The word that came to mind immediately upon seeing him was plump. Yet, he had bright cornflower blue eyes that made it plain his mind was just as sharp as in decades past, and those eyes held an intensity that would stop an armored knight cold in his tracks.
"My master," he began before the Lieutenant could speak, "is in no fit state for being pestered by visitors. What exactly is your business here?"
Lieutenant Taegan was momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness of the little man’s demeanor, and Jonas and Alastar shared a nervous grin. Quickly, the patrol commander recovered, however, and set his jaw sternly to prepare to assert his authority. He was again interrupted before he could say a word, though.
"Crim!" came a bellow from within the house, not at all unlike what Jonas would expect an angry bear to sound like from within its winter den. "What nonsense are you about now?! Tell them I still do not know when their menfolk will return!"
All eyes shifted from the little man haranguing them toward the buildings interior, including the gentleman’s own as he involuntarily looked toward the source of his master’s voice. "Visitors from the Duke, Sir Gottrey!" he called back over his own shoulder, simultaneously motioning them inside and amending, "They won’t be staying long!" That last addition had come with a stern look toward the Lieutenant that brooked no argument on his part, ducal authority or not, and Taegan simply nodded his acceptance of the condition.