by Daniel Ford
Finally, stopping to pick up a charred skull, Norbert fell to his knees, sobbing.
Nodding slightly as he felt the release of the collective tension, Allystaire walked across the green with slow, measured steps till he was at the youth’s side and could hear his tear-choked, halting murmurs. Mostly it was blubbering nonsense, but he heard the grief in the boy’s repeated, halting apologies, hunched over the bone with his head in his arms. Allystaire knelt by his side and took the crying lad into his arms. Norbert slumped against him, still sobbing, and they remained that way for a long moment.
“I’m sorry m’lord. Sorry. I’m so sorry, m’lord I…”
Allystaire let Norbert carry on sobbing his abject regret for a time, till finally he started to tug the boy to his feet.
“Stop blubbering and stand up.” Allystaire drew back with a hand on his thin shoulder. “You did not do this, lad. But you stood by and saw it done. You saw it done and did nothing. You are not the first to witness a horror such as this unfold, and you will hardly be the last. Yet your own part in it you will have to understand…and atone for. Do you hear me?”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, the boy nodded his large, narrow head several times. “I hear you, m’lord.”
Allystaire nodded almost solemnly, then waved the rest of the men onto the green. “Help us work, lad. You will eat tonight, and sleep, in safety and without bonds. Tomorrow we will discuss the rest of what you owe. Aye?”
The boy nodded again and, his tears dried, set back to work, sniffling occasionally. The other men joined him, tugging their linen masks once more around their faces. With paladin, farmers, and former-would-be reaver working together, the pile of bones diminished. Sensing the end of their task heaving into sight, they worked with renewed energy, trotting the carts in teams, and soon the green was emptied, leaving behind a large blackened scar.
“Nearly the dinner turn, m’lord,” Renard pointed out, as Allystaire came trundling up to the pit, dragging the last cartload behind him.
“Then any man who wishes to may quit to eat,” Allystaire replied, panting heavily as he set the cart down. “I intend to see the work done.”
“Any man?” Timmar asked with a note of scorn in his voice as he began unloading the cart, turning an eye on Norbert.
“Any man,” Allystaire repeated, stopping in his tracks and straightening his aching back and spreading his shoulders a bit. He fixed his eyes on Tim in a mild challenge; the villager soon looked away, his lips pressed firmly together, his stubbled jaw taut.
When the last bones were unloaded, Allystaire took a moment to gather himself and watch the crew that had dug. Many watched him, too, as if waiting for further instruction even as they grabbed shovels, but a few followed Norbert with their eyes. The gangly lad was conscious of their stares, and uneasy, but he reached for a shovel all the same. Suddenly he was sprawling on the ground, a stocky, square built villager standing above him, gripping the shovel the boy had been about to pick up.
“Eh? Want this, do ya?” The man proffered the wooden haft toward the fallen Norbert, as if to help him up, then jabbed it sharply at him, poking the end into his ribs. “Maybe you want the other end.” He started to reverse his grip. Two other men began to close in, and Norbert scrambled backward on all fours, away from the pit, his eyes wide in fear. The man lunged forward as if to bring the shovel down, but the wooden haft thumped solidly into Renard’s outstretched hand.
Allystaire was two steps away with a fire in his eyes when he saw the brawny, bearded man jump out of the pit and catch the swung shovel with an easy hand. His jaw tight, he drew closer, watching silently.
“Allystaire said any man who wanted could have a rest. Why don’t you take one, Henri?” Renard pulled the shovel free from the man’s hand, hard enough and fast enough that the villager staggered back a few steps.
“I don’t recall this one bein’ a man,” Henri snapped back at Renard. He made a grab for the shovel, and Renard, Allystaire could see, subtly shifted his hands. When Henri pulled, Renard relaxed his grip so the shovel’s haft swung forward and smacked the villager on the side of the head with a thud.
Henri let out a surprised yelp and leapt forward toward Renard, who, with a sergeant’s instinct for when enough was enough, simply extended his fist to meet the man’s charge. Henri hit the ground in a heap. Norbert had scrambled to his feet and looked ready to bolt in any direction that didn’t lead to violence, but a glance at Allystaire stayed his feet. The two villagers who’d been closing in on the downed boy suddenly turned for Renard with a roar; the bearded soldier raised his fists defensively and said calmly, “Don’t try it lads.”
“ENOUGH!” Allystaire’s bellow rang out, a huge animal roar reverberating in the still summer air. All the would-be combatants turned suddenly, white-faced, toward him. He stalked forward and seized a handful of Henri’s shirt, hauling the man to his feet. “You. You are done. Go back to the wagons and help the women. If they will have you.” He shoved the man, who looked defiant, even with the purple bruise blossoming on his cheek.
Allystaire had started to turn away, but, feeling eyes upon him, swiftly rounded back upon the stubborn villager, his face pale with anger. “Well?”
“M’lord, it’s not right!”
Allystaire stepped toward him, a seething impatience roiling inside him. Peasants, he thought, only to find himself filled with a brief moment of self-loathing. “Another word—even one—from your mouth, and I will organize a proper fistfight for you. Three falls with Renard. Now go,” he said, spitting the final syllable between clenched teeth. Reluctant, but silent, Henri tromped away.
“And the rest of you,” Allystaire roared, turning around, “any more such nonsense and it will be three falls with me, clear?” He turned an angry eye on Renard; the bearded man nodded simply, a chastened red spot growing high on his cheeks.
“Back to work and quick,” Allystaire snapped. “Fine example for your departed kinfolk.”
Norbert, meanwhile, had edged back to the pit to resume pitching in.
* * *
Before dark the grave was covered, if unevenly, and most of the sod patted more or less back into place. The green was free of bones, if not clear of ash, and the folk of Thornhurst, after the longest week of their lives, finally returned home. Most of the nearby buildings were unusable, but Idgen Marte’s group had created manageable lengths of fence with posts and rope, and this held a small herd of cows; another, smaller pen held goats. They had dug a large firepit, and the flames now smoked and guttered while carrying a sweet scent into the air.
Idgen Marte squatted by the fire, feeding long, dried stalks of weeds into the pit in bundles; a large pile of the stuff, freshly cut, sat next to her.
“Holy grass,” she explained, as Allystaire walked up behind her. “Leastways it is to the elves such as live south. Burn it on feast days. Lucky for you I found it growing here. About as far north as it grows.”
“Not sure luck has aught to do with any of this,” Allystaire muttered, as he knelt down, keeping one eye on Norbert. For his part the lad was doing a poor job of trying to stay close to Allystaire without looking like he wanted to stay close to Allystaire; he fidgeted nervously from a few yards away, constantly looking over his shoulder. “I think the lad will work out,” he offered, quietly, to the warrior squatting beside him.
“If this lot don’t hang him first. Or stone him, or press him, or simply slit his throat,” Idgen Marte retorted, her cheerful tone mocking him.
“They will do none of those,” Allystaire said sternly. “Nor will you.”
She tossed another handful of weeds into the blaze and watched it begin to smolder. “No, I won’t. But the others will take some close watching.” She shifted her feet underneath her and sat back on the grass, one hand planted behind her, and turned to look at him. She shook her head a bit and said quietly, “They’ll come to ha
te you, y‘know. That you’ve saved them, brought them a Goddess, and showed them a miracle—that’ll do, for a time. But if you stay here too long, you’ll only show them how much they lack. All that they can never be.”
“Mayhap,” Allystaire replied just as softly. “If it comes to that, I will only stay as long as I must. See the place rebuilt, wait to see what, if anything, our friend the Baron of Bend sends up the road after us. For now, though, they will listen and learn whatever I might teach.”
Idgen Marte narrowed her eyes and flattened her lips. She said, “You’re planning to preach in the morning, aren’t you?”
“No,” Allystaire said, rising to his feet and dusting the seat of his trousers with a hand. “I mean to preach now. In the morning I have to invent funeral rites.” He turned and offered his hand down to help Idgen Marte up. With a snort and roll of eyes she popped to her feet and batted aside his hand, albeit playfully.
“What can I do in order to miss the sermon?”
“Find me a building with four walls, a roof, and a door we can bar from the outside,” Allystaire replied smoothly.
Idgen Marte glared at him. “You were waiting for that one, weren’t you?”
“Of course. Now, off you go,” Allystaire said brightly, smiling.
For once, the warrior had no retort, no last word. She simply trotted off. Allystaire felt a brief flush of victory.
* * *
The preaching Allystaire did that night was minimal, mostly summed up with the phrase that had come to him often the past few days: Sometimes, mercy is strength. He didn’t reference Norbert as he spoke, or look at him or at the men who’d attacked him. The bulk of the folk had listened quietly, but he had seen some restless figures in the back muttering to each other. Trouble, he told himself, but I cannot say they have no right to their anger.
As the folk were milling around after another quiet moment of kneeling prayer at sunset, Allystaire waited for Idgen Marte to return. When she did, he caught her eye and nodded toward the loitering Norbert; she took his meaning immediately, corralled the boy by an arm, and led him off.
Allystaire watched the crowd, noting those whose gaze seemed to follow the pair. After a few moments, he stood and gathered a large parcel of food—dried fish; thick, garlicky sausage; bread; and a small pot of fragrant root stew one of the village women had made. Pausing only to make sure that Renard was among the crowd, spotting his beard and the spear the man carried like an oversized walking stick, he nodded in silent assent to his own thoughts and tried to saunter casually in the direction Idgen Marte had led Norbert. Soon he found what appeared to be a small curing shed outside of a farmhouse that had seemed to be spared the worst of the devastation; two tall figures stood silhouetted in the dying light outside of it.
The smell of the food Allystaire brought with him must have attracted their attention, for they suddenly turned toward him. Idgen Marte came forward to take some of the bundle of food out of his crooked left arm, while Norbert simply stood by and watched hopefully. Allystaire set down a rough bit of cloth on the ground and he and Idgen Marte spread the food upon it; to Norbert he gave two small dried fish and an oval loaf of brown bread, but as he held it out, pointed toward the curing shed with one outstretched finger.
“In there lad,” he said, holding out the food toward the boy’s slightly trembling hands. “You will eat and sleep there.”
Norbert took the fish and bread and held them carefully, turning a half step toward the open door of the shed before saying, “They mean t’kill me, m’lord. They’ll see me hang t’night! Surely you can see that.”
“Aye,” Allystaire nodded, his voice calm, but not unkind. “They do. And I can.”
“Have I not done all y’asked?” Norbert’s voice was slightly plaintive, nasal.
“I am not finished asking.” Allystaire paused a moment to let Norbert ponder that, but more whinging appeared to be imminent, so he raised a hand to stop the boy from speaking and went on, “If you will pause and think—a skill I am not yet convinced you possess—you will realize that I do not mean to let you hang tonight. Now, off you go to the shed. Eat and rest.”
Nodding along to a murmured string of thanks, Norbert retreated into the shed; Allystaire shut the door behind him and turned back to Idgen Marte, who was already well stuck into the meal he had brought. Slowly, with a straight and carefully held back, he lowered himself to the ground.
“Rough day cutting turf, eh,” Idgen Marte asked mockingly, around a steaming mouthful of tuber and gravy.
“No other kind,” Allystaire grunted. They ate for a time with no sounds other than their chewing and that of the night around them—crickets, the wind, the occasional owl.
“They do mean t’hang him, ya know. And I’m not sure they haven’t got it right.”
“I did not ask you,” Allystaire pointed out. He glanced toward Idgen Marte, but her form was indistinct in the fireless dark, so he turned to stare into the night. “It might be justice to hang him. I know that.”
“And yet…”
“And yet I do not think it would be the Mother’s justice,” Allystaire said, quiet but firm. “He fell in with bad men, yes, but he is not one. Not yet. He would have become one, yes. Yet now? Now I have as much a chance to save him as I did to save Mol. Surely I am not the only one who sees that?”
For a long moment, his words were met with a silence that was eventually broken by distant birdsong. Finally, Idgen Marte heaved a sigh and murmured, “You really are what you’re claiming to be, aren’t you.” He could see her hold up her hands to forestall him. “I know, I know. You think I should already believe. Well, Allystaire, I want to believe, and in the main, I do.”
“Then what is—“
“Three days ago I didn’t know if paladins were real, or just legends. Even the stories of holy knights in this part of the world? Centuries old. Why now? Why here? Why…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at him with one hand.
“Why me?” Allystaire chuckled lightly. He bit down on a hunk of sausage to give himself time to think. After chewing a while, he said, “Now and here? I suspect because enough folk cried out for it. The other, I cannot answer.” He paused; the Goddess’s voice, telling him, Others will be Called, played on his thoughts, but he said nothing of it. “Not in one night, anyway.”
“You’re meaning to stay here all the night, your back against that door, guarding a boy who meant to be a reaver because you think if you don’t, it’ll mean his life, aren’t you?”
“That is remarkably, ah, similar to my plan of engagement, aye,” he answered delicately.
Idgen Marte laughed lightly, all the sigh and anger and wariness gone out of her voice. Her laugh, Allystaire realized, was more musical than her voice, somehow overcoming the rasp that cut through her words.
“Am I amusing?”
“In your way; you just answered my question, is all.” She stood, and he slowly followed suit, turning to face her. “You won’t watch him alone. Renard can mind the camp. I’ll string a hammock in a tree. Take my bow.”
“No bow,” Allystaire said, “unless you have fowling arrows with blunt heads. No one is going to die here tonight, if I can help it.”
“I don’t carry arrows that can’t kill a man,” Idgen Marte said flatly. “And I won’t see you die here because some dirt eater gets lucky and brains you with a mallet. ‘sides, if I have t’ feather one, I’ll take him in the leg and you can heal him. Problem solved.”
Sighing, Allystaire relented with a wave of his hand. “I am too tired to argue, and I want a turn or two of sleep before they come with the rope.”
Idgen Marte was already trotting away. Allystaire put his ear to the door of the curing shed, and heard the smooth, regular breathing and occasional dry snore of Norbert asleep. He sat down, back to the wall, laid his hammer across his knees, and drifted into the light, nearly-waking sleep he
had known for a score of years.
When approaching steps woke him, the slender moon had moved a good distance in the sky. Better than two turns, he guessed. They were four, and they made no effort to hide their approach. With a sigh, Allystaire slowly levered himself up to his feet, grasping the hammer by its iron head and using the point at the end of the haft to drive creaking knees upright. Perhaps, in truth, he stood a bit more slowly, with a bit more show of pain, than necessary. A warrior might move fast, but never in haste. The stern, rolling voice of old Baron Oyrwyn echoed in his head.
“Goodmen,” Allystaire called out to them, as he settled the hammer into his belt and crossed his arms over his chest, “there is neither jakes nor midden dug this way, and it is far too early to be up after the day’s tasks, even for good farming folk.” His voice was jovial, friendly. “So what brings you here?”
One of the four stepped forward, a thick, knobbled wooden stick clutched in one hand. It was Henri. “We want that freezin’ reaver lad. He ‘angs. T’night.”
With a sigh, Allystaire shook his head and shuffled his feet slightly. “Afraid not, Henri. Now go back to the wagons—all of you—and find your beds.”
“Enough orderin’ us about like yer our lord,” one of the men in the back, whose name Allystaire couldn’t recall, exclaimed. He brandished a rope and a shuttered lantern. “’angin’ such as ‘im is justice.”