Gerald, unexpectedly overcome with a flood of emotions, withdrew the blade, tossing it across the room. He staggered back, his legs collapsing beneath him as he crumpled to the floor. He could feel tears forming in his eyes and fought to control his breathing.
Kaylan was now standing over him, a worried look on his face, “What is it? Tell me.”
“I can’t do it,” he said. “I promised to kill every Norlander I encountered, but I just can’t do it,” he sobbed out loud. The past washed over him in a flood of emotions, “The murderers killed my little girl! All I can see at night is her face, staring up at me. I’ve failed them!”
Kaylan put a hand on his shoulder, “Be at peace, friend, for you are not the only one to suffer. I, too, lost a family to the wars.”
Gerald stared back at him. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“I wasn’t always a farmer you know; I used to be a soldier.”
Gerald was immediately on edge, “A soldier?”
“No longer, my friend, you can relax.” Kaylan watched as Gerald took a breath. “I gave up that life to settle down, raise a family.”
Gerald glanced at the apron on the wall. “Your wife’s?” he asked.
Kaylan turned his gaze, “It’s all I have left of her now. We had a son, but he’s lost to me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gerald, feeling for the man. “I know what it’s like to lose your loved ones.”
Kaylan's face turned bitter, “My son didn’t die. He took service with the earl, against my wishes. There are only two careers for the common man in this part of the country, farmer or warrior. He was lured by the false promise of riches. All they have to do, they’re told, is take it from the Mercerians, but it's not true, only death lies south of the river.”
Gerald wasn’t sure how to respond, “I would have said the same of Norland, I suppose. We’ve been fighting each other for generations.”
“Tell me,” prompted Kaylan, “does the average Mercerian farmer worry about such things?”
“No,” he responded, “farmers only worry about whether the crops will come in, they care little for politics.”
“It’s the same here, my friend. Now rest, sleep easy, you’ll be safe enough while you heal. A few weeks and you’ll be able to return home.”
* * *
Several days later Gerald was comfortable enough to walk around the tiny house without using support. His ribs still ached, but a herbal tea brewed by Kaylan helped offset the pain. He was eager to be on his way but knew he wouldn’t get far in the condition he was in. He sat at the table while his host stoked the fire.
“Did you say your name was Rothmire?”
“Yes,” said Kaylan. “What of it?”
“It sounds Mercerian,” stated Gerald.
His host looked startled, “Hardly surprising really, when you think of the history we share.”
“What d’you mean?” asked Gerald.
“You see, we all come from the same stock.” Kaylan watched him, and evidently saw the look of confusion that crossed his face. “You don’t know about our shared history, do you?”
“No,” Gerald admitted.
“Norland was founded by Mercerians who were fleeing the tyranny of the king. Of course, that was generations ago.”
“Fleeing tyranny?” Despite, or maybe because of his hatred of Norlanders, Gerald was intrigued.
“That’s what the nobles are always claiming. They trace their heritage straight back to the royal line of Merceria.”
“So you’re saying the King of Norland claims the throne?”
“Well, not the present king. It's actually the Earl of Beaconsgate who claims an unbroken bloodline to your throne. He’s obsessed with reclaiming it.”
If this was true, Gerald thought, it certainly explained the attacks on Bodden. “And how do you feel about all this?” he asked.
“I don’t care for politics, I’ve seen too much of the effects of it. All I want to do now is live in peace. If Norlanders reach across into your lands, you’re more than welcome to kill them, but it’s not the commoner's fault. We’re all victims here. The troops steal as much from us as from you.”
“What d’you mean?” asked Gerald.
“The earl wants his men to support themselves. They help themselves to food and drink on both sides of the river.”
“Surely the earl protects his tenants?”
“Hah!” exclaimed Kaylan. “The earl could care less. All he cares about is taking back Merceria, and his share of any loot, of course. As you no doubt have noticed, I have little here in the way of belongings.”
“I should like to help in some way,” offered Gerald. “What can I do?”
“For now, nothing. You’d only make your condition worse. Rest as best as you can, and in another week you’ll be ready to do more.”
The sound of horses in the distance drew Kaylan's attention, “I suspect we’re about to have visitors. I suggest you come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Gerald asked.
“I have a small cellar; there’s an entrance beside the house. I’m afraid you’ll have to hide behind some barrels. If they find you here, it won’t go down well for either of us.”
Gerald rose, following his host. At the side of the house was, as he had indicated, a small hatch, leading into a tiny room stacked with crates and barrels. “Wouldn’t you get a reward for turning me in?” he asked.
“No, they don’t give rewards. They’d likely just kill the both of us. You must be silent, regardless of what you hear.” He ushered Gerald into the small, cramped cellar, closing the door, and securing the latch, effectively locking his guest in.
Gerald remained hidden in the darkened room, listening intently, straining to make out the conversation.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Kaylan asked.
“We’ve come on the orders of the earl,” a man said in a high pitch. “We need supplies.”
“I have nothing to give,” defied Kaylan.
“We’ll see that for ourselves, old man,” said the same voice. Gerald heard the man as he dropped from the saddle, his armour clattering as he walked. The sound was drawing nearer, and he feared the visitor might be coming to the cellar. He squeezed in behind some barrels, crouching as low as he could. Sure enough, the cellar door opened and there was a man, silhouetted by light.
“You seem to have plenty down here,” the visitor was saying. “Let’s see what’s available.
Footsteps descended, and the visitor was so close Gerald could almost hear him breathing. A sword pried open a barrel, and he peered inside. “These are empty!” he swore.
“As I said,” argued Kaylan, “I have nothing left to give. You lot have taken anything of value.”
The visitor tapped each crate and barrel with the hilt of his sword, only to be rewarded with the echo of empty containers. He grumbled and then withdrew, his footfalls disappearing up the steps.
“I’ll report this to my captain,” the high pitched man said, “but he won’t be happy. I suspect he’ll want to come back himself.”
“Whatever you feel is best,” replied Kaylan, in a neutral tone. Armour jingled while the man remounted his horse and then Gerald listened as the horse's hooves receded in the distance. A moment later, Kaylan called down the steps, “It’s safe to come out now.”
“What was that all about?” Gerald asked.
“The army is short of supplies, as normal. The soldiers do this all the time. There’s nothing left for them to take, but it doesn’t stop them from trying.”
“I had no idea it was this bad,” Gerald confessed. “The Baron of Bodden would never condone such activities.”
“Would that the baron ruled here,” commiserated Kaylan, “perhaps we’d all be better off.”
* * *
As time passed, Gerald’s bruises healed, but his ribs were still tender. Kaylan planted seeds in the small plot he called his farm, while Gerald helped by tending to a small
herb garden to the side of the house. The work was simple enough and didn’t require him to overexert himself. Kaylan had proved to be a gracious host. Though he had little to offer, he was always willing to share. Gerald felt guilty being such a burden on the man and resolved to leave him some coins when he left.
The weather had become warmer, and Gerald could tell that summer was just around the corner. He moved around now without discomfort but still, occasionally, a twinge of pain would cause him to double over. It was over a month since their last visitors, and he was taking a breather on a small stool, in front of the house. Kaylan was chopping wood near the edge of the clearing, and the rhythmic sound of the axe lulled Gerald into a drowsy state.
A shout of alarm brought Gerald back from his near-slumber, and he looked up to see Kaylan pointing off in the distance where three horsemen were cresting the rise. The farmer ran back to the hut, shouting at Gerald, “You must hide in the root cellar, quickly!”
Gerald did as he was bidden, once again crouching behind the barrels. The cellar door closed, the latch falling into place and he waited, straining his ears to pick up any sign of what was transpiring. The hoof beats drew closer, and then he heard the horses halting very near to the hut.
Kaylan's voice quite clearly stated, “I suppose this isn’t a social call?”
“Where is it?” said a well-spoken voice, full of contempt. “I know you’ve got it hidden around here somewhere.”
“I have nothing left, you’ve seen to that. You’ve taken everything of value from me.”
“It seems I don’t quite have everything, old man” the visitor sneered. "Hand it over.”
“You’ll never have it,” said Kaylan. “You’re not worthy of it.”
“Why are you being so obstinate, old man? You know it’s rightfully mine. Give it to me!”
“You’ll never get it, Joseph,” Kaylan spat. “I’ll take its location to the grave with me.”
“So be it,” the younger man said with finality.
The sound of rasping steel was all that Gerald heard before Kaylan screamed out in pain. Then, the visitor yelled and cursed as he rained down blows on the poor farmer, his screams echoing through the small cellar. Gerald ran to the door to push it open, but the latch held and all he could do was listen as his friend was attacked. The screaming finally stopped, the air now filled with only the sound of the heavy beating of his own heart.
“Search the place; leave no stone unturned. It has to be here somewhere!”
Gerald backed up, drawing his dagger. He stood in the darkest corner of the cellar and waited, knowing their eyes would have to adjust to the gloom. There was a rattling noise as the latch was withdrawn, and then the cellar door swung open, casting a dim light into the small space.
Two men peered down into the gloom. Gerald watched them intently, but they didn’t enter.
“I searched this last time,” one of them uttered, “no sense in looking again.” They turned, closing the cellar door behind them.
Gerald listened to them ransacking the house, but could hear no sound of Kaylan. With nothing but a dagger against their armour and swords, he could do little but wait, not knowing his friend’s fate. Eventually, the sounds stopped, and he heard voices from above.
“It’s not here, sir.”
“Damn him to the Underworld,” their leader cursed. “It must be here somewhere.”
“We are due back in camp by dark, sir.”
“Yes. We’ll have to come back another time.”
“What about the farmer?”
“Leave him. He can die where he lies.”
* * *
Gerald emerged from the cellar, after waiting what seemed like an eternity for the riders to leave. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight. The soldiers were disappearing over the rise as he cast about, searching for Kaylan. He spied him on the ground, close to the front of the house. A large pool of blood spread beneath his inert form, though his chest was still rising and falling. Gerald ran to help him, but one sight of the terrible stomach wound told him all he needed to know. He knelt beside the injured man.
“Kaylan,” he said, “is there anything I can do?”
“I’m afraid it’s the end for me,” his host replied. “I don’t have much time. Will you grant me a final wish?”
“Of course,” said Gerald, tears forming, “name it.”
"Beneath the garden where you worked, is buried an old heirloom. Take it and put it to use. May it serve you well.”
“I can’t…” stammered Gerald.
“Please,” Kaylan begged, “I cannot bear to see it in the hands of someone who would use it for evil.”
“That man,” asked Gerald, “was he your son?”
“No longer,” rasped Kaylan. “He deserves nothing but a dishonourable death. I would die in peace if I knew I went after him.”
“Then I will kill him,” promised Gerald. “I shall track him down to the ends of the earth if need be, but I must see to you first.”
“No, you must act quickly. Your presence here will not delay my trip to the Afterlife, though I suspect I go to the Underworld for my actions.”
“I can’t believe that,” objected Gerald. “You have treated me with kindness and respect, something I didn’t expect from a Norlander. You have taught me that we are all the same, regardless of what side of the river we're from.”
“Then I die without reservations,” uttered Kaylan with his final breath, “knowing that I have made a friend of a Mercerian.” His eyes closed, his chest rising no more.
Gerald looked down upon him, seeing, not a Norlander, but a companion; a friend. “I will avenge your death,” he proclaimed, “of that, you may be sure.”
He left Kaylan's body where it was and took up a shovel. Digging into the herb garden with abandon, he was rewarded with the sight of burlap. He knelt, unearthing the buried treasure with his bare hands. By the size and shape, it was a weapon of some sort. He tore away the wrappings, freeing a sword that was of an old design, with a small crossguard that was popular generations ago. The blade was well made, its hilt decorated with gold and gems. He lifted it in his hands, surprised by its lightness. Looking to the sky, he saw the sun was just passed its peak; still some time left before darkness would lose him the trail. Gerald entered the house, likely for the last time he thought, and retrieved his battered mail. Now was the time for retribution; to make good on his oath to Kaylan.
* * *
The sun set as Captain Joseph Rothmire finished another goblet of wine. “A fine blend, Stilson,” he pronounced, smacking his lips.
“I’m glad you approve, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I’ve some more if you like? Got it from that farm we raided last week.”
The captain smiled, “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“Bit disappointing today, sir,” mused Stilson.
“He wasn’t going to give it up,” cursed the Captain. “I should have known. He probably sold it years ago.”
“Pity,” added the sergeant, “from the sounds of it, it would be quite valuable.”
“Oh, it is,” the captain agreed, “but I won’t waste any more time on it. Next week we’ll cross the border again. No doubt the Mercerian farmers will yield more food than our own.”
“It’ll be good to be rid of this area,” muttered the sergeant.
“Why is that?”
“Don't you know? They call this place the Warrior's Rest.”
“I've never heard that. Tell me more,” commanded the captain.
“They say the ghosts of fallen warriors reside here, sir. Best to be away as quickly as possible.”
“Nonsense,” announced his superior. “Now I’ve got to go and piss out this wine. I’ll be back shortly.” He staggered out of the tent, steadying himself carefully on the ropes as he exited. He took a moment to catch his bearings, and then wobbled toward the tree-line, his mind still flooded with visions of the ancient sword. He walked up to a tree and, plac
ing a hand on its trunk to steady himself, fumbled with his trousers before dropping them to his ankles. Looking down as he sought his relief, he saw a blade suddenly protrude from his chest. In the blink of an eye, he was dead, falling to the ground to lie in his own piss, still steaming from the chill of the air.
* * *
Sergeant Stilson fished around in his pack, withdrawing another bottle. Sitting back down to pour more wine, he heard the tent flap open behind him and spoke, “It’s about time you got back. I thought we might celebrate the coming invasion.”
The silence behind him had him turning to see what was the matter. At the entrance to the tent was an ancient spirit, wearing old and tattered chainmail, grasping a bejewelled blade, still dripping with blood. The sergeant’s face grew pale, and his hands began to tremble, for surely this was a warrior spirit that stood before him.
“Begone from this place,” it said, “and never return or join the fate of your captain.”
The sergeant tried to stammer out a reply, but his voice froze in fear.
The ghost before him spoke again, “I have no wish to take your life, for I have seen enough death this day. Go, and never let me lay eyes upon on you again!”
The sergeant flew out the tent, pausing only long enough to call on his men to flee.
Gerald sat down at the small folding table. He had expected a long fight, but somehow Saxnor had protected him, and his enemies now flew in abject fear. He didn’t know why, but the weariness of the past few hours wore heavily on him, and he merely acknowledged his good fortune.
* * *
Gerald stood for a moment, gazing down into the Kaylan's grave. His friend had told him to take the sword, but instead, he laid it on the body, so that the dead man could take it with him to the Afterlife. Saxnor would see his strength and welcome him with open arms. He deserved no less.
He finished filling in the grave and then stood, resting his arms on the shovel, looking down. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said aloud. “May you find eternal happiness in the Afterlife.”
Mercerian Tales Page 14