by C S Vass
“You look a lot further from it than when I found you,” Harken replied. “All the same, you’ve been through quite a lot. I’m almost positive none of those ribs are broken, but they’re badly bruised and I’d be surprised if you didn’t have some fractures. You should take it easy while you can. There’s no need to rush out. We’ll have to see to tending to your friend as well.”
There was no point in arguing with that, so Fiona gave her thanks.
After that they talked about many things. Harken was a trader of sorts, but he also seemed to have half a hand in any business that could generate some revenue. He could tan hide into leather, dabble sufficiently enough in herbal remedies to gain the respect of the village housewives, repair basic weapons and armor in his makeshift forge, and as Fiona found out that very day, make a surprisingly delicious crab and snapper stew.
After a while Fiona noticed that one object in the room had a distinguished place relative to the others. Set aside on a shelf of its own with a few wild flowers around it was a beautifully engraved ceramic urn. “Where did you get that?” Fiona asked after they had shared the stew together.
“I made the urn. Its contents were the blessing of my life. My wife, Laelia. She died many years ago.”
“Oh.” Fiona suddenly felt her ears burning. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Harken waved it off. “Don’t be silly. The last thing I would ever want to do is forget about her, or shroud her grave in silence. She was the love of my life, a beautiful woman who taught me everything I know about everything I know. I like to think that in my little crafts she can be remembered.”
“She is,” Fiona assured him. “She must have been something incredible if she could make a stew better than that.”
Harken smiled, and Fiona was relieved that the subject of his late wife seemed to bring him more serenity that sorrow. Just then, they were interrupted by the door of the cabin swinging open.
* * *
“Jet! Come in. We have guests!”
In walked a youth of an age with Fiona, a young man with bushy eyebrows, black hair, and the same clear blue eyes as his father. He also had a brooding demeanor.
Jet looked cautiously at Fiona and the sleeping Geoff. “I apologize if I’m intruding,” he said. “I didn’t realize there was company.”
Harken laughed Jet’s formality off as ridiculous. “Come inside, boy. Why would you ever apologize for setting foot in your own home?” Harken engulfed his son in an enormous bear-hug which made the lad’s face turn bright red.
“Father, you saw me not ten hours ago,” Jet complained.
“I’m grateful every time I see you boy. Now come, meet Fiona.”
Jet made eye contact with Fiona for the first time. Harken’s son surely had to be cut from the same good-natured cloth as Harken, but upon meeting his eyes Fiona felt a disquieting anger that caught her off guard.
“Hello,” Jet said formally. He seemed to not quite know where to put his hands, and neither did she, until he aggressively grabbed her palm and shook it with attempted politeness. “Who exactly are you?”
“I’m a traveler,” Fiona said. “I was caught in a shipwreck and your father found me.”
“Just like him to bring home strays,” Jet said.
Alright, dick. Fiona had almost let the words slip through her mouth, but now was not the time to offend her host.
“Have you eaten, son?” Harken asked merrily, happily unaware of the changing sub-tones of the room.
“I have,” Jet said. “Which is thankful because I can see you’re welcoming strangers into our home. Strangers, when you won’t even break bread with the people who—”
“Enough!” Harken yelled.
The room grew quiet and Harken laughed as if that small scene could be swept away. “We’ve had that conversation many times, son, and I don’t think either one of us is changing the other’s mind.”
“Obviously not,” Jet said cooly.
Fiona was having trouble figuring out where to put her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to get caught up in some kind of feud between father and son while recovering from her injuries in a strange land.
“Sit down now, and stop with the foolishness,” Harken implored. “We have a happy night of sharing stories ahead of us.”
“As much as I would love to… share stories, there is important work I need to get done.”
“Jet—”
“I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up for me.” Without another word Jet left the house.
For a moment Harken looked sad enough to cry, but then unexpectedly burst out laughing. “Boys, right? I don’t know what to do with him some days, but he’s a good kid.”
Fiona felt excruciatingly uncomfortable in that moment, so she did what she always did in moments like that. She spoke her mind. “Um, Harken. Is there something about your son I should know about? Is Jet mad that we’re imposing on your hospitality?”
Harken looked thunderstruck at the very thought. “No, of course not, absolutely has nothing to do with you…” he couldn’t seem to stumble out his apologies fast enough.
“Okay, okay,” Fiona said. She didn’t think she could take much more beating around the bush. “That’s all well and good. Just, what’s actually going on? I just want to know so I can be sensitive to anything I should be aware of. Harken, I owe you my life. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you. It’s okay.”
At her questioning Harken seemed to relent somewhat. “Oh, very well,” he said. “This all goes back to damn Raejo!”
“Raejo? How?”
“It’s complicated, Fiona. These things always are.” Harken let out a great sigh and his eyes filled with anger. “I judge people rather as a reflex, Fiona,” he admitted. “For whatever reason, my intuition tells me to trust you. I pray I’m not mistaken. You see, my son and I are in a very serious argument right now. An argument over which the very soul of our village rests.”
“That does indeed sound serious,” Fiona said. “Tell me what you mean.”
“Well, it all has to do with Lord Raejo, and our elder Greythor. You see, Raejo has certainly committed many injustices. That much is without question. But our elder Greythor is a man of non-violence. He forbids it, especially when it’s convenient to pick up the sword. Especially when it’s easier to kill your enemies than reason with them. I am a follower of Greythor.”
“Back up one moment,” Fiona said, before Harken had the chance to go into a diatribe about his admiration for his village elder. “So Greythor acknowledges the wrongs committed by Raejo?”
“Absolutely,” Harken said. “In fact, most everyone does. That’s why Raejo needs to rely on hiring outside soldiers to support him. That’s why he’s so greedy for the silver in the mines.”
“Very well,” Fiona said. “And despite the obvious popular hatred of Raejo, your elder Greythor insists nobody raise a weapon to him.”
“Yes,” Harken said. “It is hard to explain to one who doesn’t understand. The fighting and killing, it can solve an immediate problem. But when you water the ground with blood, expect naught but man-eating plants to grow. I think Greythor said that at one point or another. Regardless, I believe in Greythor. He’s led this village for over fifty years and we’ve always done well by him.”
“But Raejo was never your provincial lord before,” Fiona said. “What if things are different now and you really do need to do something more extreme about it?”
“No, no! Ah, I’m not a damn philosopher. I won’t argue about it. Fiona, try to understand. We just want to live in peace. But it’s Jet. He’s always been such a rebel, and I fear it’s taking him to dangerous places these days. He goes to secret meetings. The boy has rebellion in his heart. Such things can only bring only death. It is better to not stir the pot when the water is boiling!”
Harken’s eyes were pleading with her, and Fiona felt truly sorry for the man. At the same time though, she had seen enough bloodshed to ha
ve some sympathy for Jet if he really was involved in a rebellion.
“Well, I guess what can you do?” Fiona said. She didn’t want to argue with the man who had been so hospitable to her, especially when there was no sign that Jet would share that sympathy should she seek it from him.
“I can try to advise my son,” Harken said. “He thinks me a coward. He thinks I don’t have the will to fight for revolution. If fighting was the answer I would do it in a second. I’m an old man, or near enough. I would a thousand times me and my generation die on the front lines of a battle than Jet and his. But this violence… it, it… ah! Greythor always puts it in so wise a way. I don’t have the same honeyed tongue.”
“I think I understand,” Fiona said. Harken’s face was wrinkled with worry. She placed her hand gently on his arm. “Nobody knows the future. Things may yet work out for you and your village. Perhaps I can try to help, or pay you back in some way.”
Harken smiled at her in silent thanks.
Geoff’s mumbling took them both from the moment.
“Geoff?” Fiona asked.
Harken was bent over the old knight. “He’s asleep. Dreaming. He’s mumbling but I can’t hear what it is that he’s saying.
“Is he alright?” Fiona asked.
“Hot. He may be running a fever. It’s all right. It’s just his body pushing out some toxins. I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry.”
Easier said than done, Fiona thought. If Geoff died as a result of her recklessness onboard Deliverance she didn’t think she would be able to forgive herself. With anxious thoughts Fiona slowly drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Three
Fiona woke up late at night. Translucent moonlight slipped into the room through the window. She heard a noise, horses. Warily she sat up. Geoff’s sleeping form rose and fell silently as he breathed in and out. Harken lit several candles on the table.
“What’s going on?” Fiona asked.
The sound of her speaking startled him and Harken fumbled with the candles. “It’s all right,” he said in a tone that suggested anything but. “There are men coming up the road. Soldiers.”
Fiona instinctively reached for her blade and realized she had no idea where either sword was. “My weapons… where are they?”
“I have them here,” Harken whispered. “No, stay seated. There will be no need for them. This is a peaceful house.” Fiona didn’t share that confidence, but all the same she stayed seated. Moments later there was a loud pounding on the door.
“Open up, in the name of Lord Raejo,” a gruff voice shouted.
Fiona watched silently as Harken opened the door. Without wasting a moment she leapt up and grabbed her two swords before hiding under the table. She didn’t intend to be caught by strange soldiers without a weapon in her hand.
“Hello, how can I help you?” Harken asked in a nervous voice as he opened the door.
The soldiers pushed their way past Harken. There were three of them. All appeared to be of an age with Harken. They had thick beards, long ring mail armor that fell below their knees, and broadswords strapped to their backs. “We’re looking for a man named Jet,” one of the soldiers barked. “We understand he lives here.”
“A man… hardly,” Harken chuckled. “Jet is my son. He is not home. Why have you come here so late at night?”
The soldiers ignored the question. “Who’s the old timer?” one of them asked, gesturing to Geoff.
“A guest,” Harken said.
“I don’t like the smell of this at all,” one of the soldiers said.
“Please, sir. Why do you want my son?”
“We had a little bird tell us that your boy is causing problems. Running around with the riffraff of the other villages. Lord Raejo does not tolerate little mice to scurry about whispering bad things about him. You do understand that. Don’t you, peasant?”
“We harbor our provincial lord no ill will in this house,” Harken said.
“I don’t like that the boy’s not here. Search the place.”
Immediately the soldiers started ripping through Harken’s things. Before they could get far Fiona spoke.
“Stop that.”
The guards turned and looked at her. Her chest still ached horribly, but Harken was a good man and this search was an outrage.
“What have we got here then?” one of the guards said. He took a step towards her and Fiona slid the demon-pommel blade halfway out of its sheath.
“No!” Harken roared. “Put that away, girl. This is a peaceful house.”
“Best do as he says,” the guard jeered. “We don’t want this to get messier than it has to be, girl.”
“Fiona please. This is my house. These men are welcome here and they’re welcome to search what they like. We have no secrets.”
“What’ll it be, girl?” The guard leered at her with beetle-black eyes that flickered like coals in the candlelight.
It took all of her discipline, but this was Harken’s house after all. “My apologies,” she muttered as she put the sword down.
The soldier who approached her had a disappointed look about him. “That’s what I thought,” he snorted. The guards were both methodical and careless. Bottles were shattered, tables overturned, and mattresses cut open and searched. Blood thundered in Fiona’s temples as she withheld her rage at the intrusion. Harken bore it all with deliberate patience, watching in silence as the men destroyed his home.
“Weak little shit,” one of the soldiers mocked. “I don’t even know why the commander has us here. There’s nothing to be found but chicken-shits and cowards.” Harken did not look away from the men as they taunted him. Fiona found that she was growing a newfound respect for the villager. To withstand the abuse took a kind of quiet dignity and power that was very different from what was required to stand on the battlefield, but no less brave.
Then the guards went too far.
“Who croaked?” one of them asked as he glanced at the urn containing Harken’s wife from the mantle. “Or are you hiding some little secret in here?”
“No!” Harken squeaked. “Please. Don’t interfere with that. My wife… please, gentlemen. Be reasonable.”
“Looks pretty suspicious to me,” the guard said. “Don’t think I can say I did my job if I didn’t pour out the contents and see what you’re hiding.” There was wicked laughter in his eyes while his comrades urged him on.
“You place a hand on that urn and you lose that hand.”
Fiona was shrouded in shadow but the razor edge of the demon-pommel blade shone naked in the moonlight.
“Put that away before you get hurt, girl,” a soldier said.
“Cocky bitch,” sneered another as he stepped forward. Fiona could see them sizing up the situation. Three of them, armed and armored, and her in nothing but some of Harken’s old sleeping clothes.
She had faced worse.
The guard closest to the urn reached out to grab it and then everything happened at once. Fiona leapt at the soldier blocking her way, swept his sword aside with her own, and circle-spun past him. The moment his comrade’s hand brushed the urn it was severed from his body and fell to the floor with a thump. Screaming, the guard dropped to his knees clutching his stump.
“Who else?” she growled as she faced her remaining opponents. The guard’s were quickly reassessing the situation. She could see the fear growing in their eyes. “Cowards,” she hissed. “Get out then. Now.”
“We’ll be back, bitch,” a soldier snarled as he assisted his friend up.
“Wait,” Fiona commanded as she held her sword to his face. She gestured to the severed arm. “Don’t leave that filth here. Take it with you.”
The guard looked as though he were debating leaping at her, but he wanted no part of the blade inches from his nose. With a look of rage he lifted the arm, and the three of them departed.
A heavy silence descended upon the room. Geoff’s unconscious body still expanded and contracted silently in the corner. “Are y
ou okay?” Fiona asked Harken as she wiped the blood from her demon-pommel blade on a cloth.
Harken’s face shone pale in the moonlight. “I… no. You shouldn’t have done that. To think, such violence in my house.”
“Harken, those men were thugs. They were asking for it. If I hadn’t interfered, they were going to desecrate your wife.”
Harken was at a loss for words. He lit some additional candles and took a deep quavering breath. “My wife would not want the living to risk their lives or their morals for the sake of the dead.” He spoke slowly and with conviction.
Fiona didn’t know what to say to that. She couldn’t imagine Harken being ungrateful for the way she had driven off those brutes. Uneasily she managed to say, “I see. I’m sorry for causing you trouble.”
He looked at her earnestly. His eyes looked so tired. “It’s okay. I forgive you. Thank you for not killing them. But please, no more violence in my home.”
Fiona sheathed her blade and took a seat. “You’re such a strong believer in not fighting. Is it because of your leader, Greythor?”
Harken sat beside her. “Indeed. Greythor is our elder and the wisest person in the village. He taught us that anger is a fire. Once ignited it has a life of its own, burning everything in its path.”
“But not all fire is bad,” Fiona pointed out. “There’s a time and a place for fire. When darkness and cold creep towards you, fire is a wonderful blessing.”
Harken smiled. “You continue to prove I’m no match for your tongue, Fiona. Please, let it be. This land is new to you. Greythor has his reasons. If you stopped trying to poke holes in them and started seeing the benefits of his way, then you might be pleasantly surprised.”
Fiona thought that the only surprise would have been Harken’s dedication to peace snapping like a twig once those thugs destroyed his wife’s urn. That was a thought she kept to herself.
“All the same,” Fiona continued, “I hope you will still permit us to stay. My friend is plainly not well, and I would like to stay by him.” What she left unsaid was the terrible guilt that was slowly uncoiling in her belly. Now that the rush of the battle was wearing off she realized that those men surely would come back, and she would be responsible. She had a duty to protect Harken now, at the very least.