"The Two Things Certain In Life"
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dochermes"The Two Things Certain In Life"
8/1219 DR
I.
It was late in the afternoon, sunlight slanting in the tiny oilcloth-covered window at an angle, when Romal awoke. Instinctively, he tugged at the loop around his wrist and found his sword still at hand. The Mongrel stretched and sat up, feeling back to normal for the first time in days. He was lying naked except a white loincloth, and he looked down at his heavily muscled body moodily. New scars. Each told a story, whether he wanted to remember them or not. Now there would be two parallel white lines across his chest where he had been gouged by the Vandage. Still, he was alive to heal and bear scars, which was something the Vandage could not boast.
The Mongrel sat up on the edge of the low bed with its straw-packed mattress and hard pillow. The ceiling was so low he could not sit fully upright. This storage space in the old cottage had been converted into a bedroom for the son of the widow who was allowing him to stay here while he recovered. Aside from the bed, there was a trunk filled with clothing and a few stacks of household items no longer in use but too good to throw away. Romal got the loop of the scabbard off his wrist and started digging for his clothing, feeling uneasily that it was past time for him to be moving on. The ancient winds of trouble always blew at his back, that was the curse Tollinor Kje had laid upon him when he had defied the Firstmade of the Darthim. He did not want those winds to wither the widow who had treated him well.
Pulling on the black trousers and well-worn leather boots, the Mongrel decided he would head north, toward the great forest of Blackwood. He felt like getting away from people for a long time, to live by himself in the wilderness, setting traps and catching fish for food and just wandering aimlessly. It was not like he belonged anywhere. No nation was home to him, no people claimed his as their own. He was the only one of his kind.
He pulled the dark blue long-sleeved tunic down over his head, then brushed back his mane of coarse black hair with his fingers to tidy it. Doing so, his hands touched his ears and he frowned. It was those ears, rising to distinct points, which marked him as the Mongrel for any to see. Romal was a creature of the Darthim, given unnatural birth and infused with characteristics of the Seven Races. He resembled a Human, but he wasn't. In his body was the strength of a Troll, the quickness of a Snake man, the hidden gills of a Gelydra. He had no kin and no kindred.
Straightening up as much as he could under the slanted ceiling, Romal buckled his sword belt around his waist. This was not the best sword he had ever weilded, but his favorite had chipped in a battle and later broke in half. The sword he carried now was a typical Zhekite blade of good quality but nothing special. As soon as he spotted a better weapon, he would make every effort to claim it. The Mongrel tugged his travel pack closer and took out the two Trom-metal bands which he slipped on his wrists and the Trom-metal diadem which he fastened on his head just below the hairline. Suddenly he felt fully himself again, as if he had been pretending to be someone not cursed to a roaming life of violence. No matter. Every dreamer had to awaken at some point.
Lifting the trapdoor in the floor by its iron ring, he went down the narrow steps that were almost as steep as a ladder, standing in a room with a wooden plank floor and real furniture. Chairs, a table, a bench, all crafted well and made to last. The fireplace against the far wall was cold and cleaned off this time of year of course. In one corner was the bed of the widow, tidied up as was the rest of the cottage. Glass was expensive and rare in the Darthan Age, the windows let in light through oiled cloth.
Widow Bromnel limped in through the open door to outside and smiled as she saw him. It was hard to gauge how old the widow was, childbearing and hard labor had left her bent and worn as highborn ladies never became. In her shapeless cotten dress and with her white hair pinned in a bun behind her head, she probably looked older than she really was. "I greet you this day," she said in the Zhekita dialect.
"Well met and glad to see you," Romal answered. "I think your cooking has healed my wounds faster than any potion or spell ever could. It is time for me to put my feet on the trail again."
"You would be welcome to stay here as long as you like. I felt safer with you under my roof. What burglar or thief would enter where you sleep?" She shook her head slowly. "But I see it in your eyes. You will never linger long in any place, even though you wish to. I know the tales told of you, Romal. Who has not heard them? But I am a good judge of people and I trusted you from the start. Will you not remain here?"
"It's my doom," he said bluntly. "Wherever I go, the ancient winds of trouble blow and people die. I would spare you that." He set his travel pack down and began to untie its straps. "But first, I wish to leave you with fitting payment. A warm bed in a quiet home, solid meals well cooked, tales of this land told by one of its wise women... all these deserve recompense."
She brushed that aside with a gesture of a bony hand. "Ah, it matters not. Today, the King's tax collector is in our village. He and his big brute of a helper. When my husband died, he left that year's taxes unpaid and now, despite all my toil, I have not gathered enough to pay the amount. Last year and this year... it will add up to twenty bronze coins and I have three."
Romal fixed his dark blue eyes on her reproachfully. "I knew nothing of this."
"If I could, I would live in this house where Sifan and I were so happy so many years. Now I must go and stay with my sister and her own family and leave my home behind." She tilted her head as if listening. "Come. See what approaches."
Standing in the doorway, Romal gazed toward the center of the village where the public well stood under its wooden roof. A crowd of perhaps fifteen villagers stood around two men on horseback, well-dressed men who sat on quality saddles and who looked as if they had not missed many meals. The older rider had a ledger sticking up from his saddlebags, and he drew it out now. Beside him, on a sturdy draft horse, his assistant loomed up a head taller than any man in the crowd. Where the tax collector was soft and complacent, the assistant was lean and dangerous-looking. He had a curved saber at his side and a dirk in his belt, and his angry stare showed he would not mind having to use both.
"Squire Tremane and his helper Amgor," said the widow harshly. "They come through this province of Zheka every fall after the harvest and demand what the king has ordained. Behind them is coming a wagon with soldiers to receive larger valuables. Half of our crops and half our animals have already bent sent to the palace." She sighed. "I have nothing to give him, not even a daughter he might take as a serving wench. I know Tremane will rule against me. He will cast me from this house and claim it from the crown, and no one in the crowd dares defy him."
Romal had said nothing. She turned toward him and was surprised to see him holding a long wool mantle that had been hanging from a peg beside the door. "This was your husband's, you said?"
"Yes. Two years has it dangled there. You are welcome to it, Jordyn knows I have no use for it."
The Mongrel grinned wolfishly, his heavy eyebrows lowered. "I think I will purchase it and put it to good use. Here," he pressed a small pouch into her hand. It clinked as she took it. The widow peered inside and saw both bronze and silver coins and two gold pieces from nearby Signarm. "What? Wait, this is enough to buy a farm, let alone an old cloak--"
Her voice broke off. The back door was open, showing only the path to the creek that ran behind the village. Romal was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to consider what to do next, for the sound of hoofs thudded in the dirt outside her home. The tax collector rode up, followed by the sullen crowd who seemed to be considering attacking him.
Bromnel stepped outside to meet him, suddenly standing straighter with a new defiance.
Consulting his ledger, Squire Tremane announced loudly, "Bromnel daughter of Picand, widow of veteran Sifan. It is recorded that you owe the crown taxes from last year as well as the amount due this year, as ordered by His Majesty. Twenty bronze pieces. I ask you for payment in full now."
The old woman turned toward the crowd, all of whom she had known all their lives. "Who shall be my witnesses? Tam the miller? Woffen? Will you swear to what you see me do now?"
"Of course," answered the older of the two men. "Your honor is solid with this village."
"Very well then," she said with a smile. "Watch as if life depends on it." Reaching into the leather pouch, she counted out ten bronze coins, each of which had the trident of Cirkoth on both sides. She handed them to the Tax Collector and counted out loud as she did so. Then she held up a coin that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. "Ten bronze coins. And one of silver, equal to ten bronze. This pays me debt. Has everyone seen this?"
"We have!" the crowd roared with delight. No one had been happy to think they would see the old woman forced from her home. "Now your work here is done!" shouted one villager to the Tax Collector. "Begone."
To his credit, Tremane did not show surprise. He placed the coins carefully in the strongbox which his assistant held out and which was then locked and tied to Amgor's saddle with leather straps. The Tax Collector made a mark in his ledger and lowered it to his own saddlebags. "All is in order, Widow Sifan. Yet may I ask how you came by such a sum? You have no field, no trade. Your husband could not have left you much."
"Not that it is your concern," she snapped, "but Sifan did leave me something of value which I reluctantly sold. I think you should go now. The village will be glad to see your back as you ride away."
Tremane bowed slightly. "I do not expect to be loved by the people," he said. "I am but carrying out my function. Until next harvest, then." He wheeled his steed around and marched it slowly toward the road leading toward the next town. Behind him rode Amgor, staring hatefully at the crowd as if he hoped they would try to attack him and provide an excuse to cut them down. As the two horsemen went from the village, the crowd burst into delighted cheers.
II.
Tremane and his henchman rose from town with no particular haste. The next village was near enough that they would certainly reach it before night set in, and there they could demand lodging and a meal. As their horses trotted lightly along the hard-packed dirt road, the Tax Collector asked Amgor, "Was it not strange that an old widow woman should have a silver coin?"
"She claimed to have sold some trifle left by her husband," growled the former soldier. "Mayhaps. So long as she paid."
"So be it," Tremane said. He gazed at the metal strongbox fastened to the back of his helper's saddle. "We have met our quota and more. That box holds more coins than I have ever seen gathered on one circuit, Amgor. Hopefully my superiors will be pleased."
The sullen man riding beside him did not reply. He knew he was only there to guard the money and to intimidate peasants into turning over what little they had. It was easier service than being in the King's army and safer, yet there was no loot for him personally. Nor did Tremane allow him to demand the services of young women who had no coins to tender. That rankled him...
"Hold, pull up!" the Tax Collector said suddenly. He tugged on the reins and his mild old chestnut mare came to a halt. "There, by those birch trees. I saw..."
"You saw what?" barked Amgor just as a stranger wrapped in a dark mantle flashed from the trees faster than any living thing they had ever seen. The man left the ground in a high tackle that brought him down on top of Tremane with an impact that stunned the fat old man. The Tax Collector blew out all the air from his lungs with a rush. He would not be rising right away.
The stranger was up on his feet, whirling to face the henchman. Part of the mantle had been ripped off and fashioned into a mask that showed nothing but a grim mouth and chin. He stood defiantly with open hands by his sides as Amgor wheeled his steed around and drew his sabre.
"A highwayman, eh?" yelled the ex-soldier. "I'll cleave your head far from its neck!"
"Better men than you have tried," answered the masked man. As Amgor spurred his mount forward and raised his curved blade high for the killing stroke, the stranger leaped in close and smote the bodyguard in the chest with an impact that flung the big man off the saddle and tumbling in the dirt. Hurt but far from beaten, Amgor jumped up with his sabre still in hand just in time for the stranger to whip his own sword in a horizontal arc that sliced neatly through the guard's neck. Body and head fell in different directions.
The robber swung around to glare at the dazed Tremane, then stepped closer with bloody blade in hand.
"Don't slay me, sir! I beg you, don't slay me!" cried the Tax Collector with no attempt at saving any dignity. "Take what you will."
"So I shall." The stranger seized the saddle horn on the late Amgor's horse and vaulted up into it easily. "Wait until dark! Only then may you ride back to the village and tell your tale. Don't make me come looking for you."
"I won't! Spare me, please," Tremane begged.
With a harsh laugh, the stranger urged the horse off at a gallop. After Tremane was well beyond sight, he laughed coldly once again. Romal yanked off the heavy mantle and flung it into the bushes to one side. He was inordinately pleased with himself. True, he could not keep this horse for long; once the Tax Collector sent a messenger to the court, the King's soldiers would be searching for it. By then, Romal would be at the mountain pass where the border to Signarm began and he would continue on foot. Nor would he be destitute.
The Mongrel reached behind him and fondled the strongbox full of coins. Perhaps he should return to the village in a few days and give the people back what they had paid. But no. If the King's spies overheard that the townsfolk had kept their tax money, there would be brutal reprisals. Someone would be bound to talk and give the game away. Too bad. Romal admitted to himself that he was glad to be able to keep the strongbox with just cause. He could only be a little virtuous at a time.
9/21/2014
f
8/1219 DR
I.
It was late in the afternoon, sunlight slanting in the tiny oilcloth-covered window at an angle, when Romal awoke. Instinctively, he tugged at the loop around his wrist and found his sword still at hand. The Mongrel stretched and sat up, feeling back to normal for the first time in days. He was lying naked except a white loincloth, and he looked down at his heavily muscled body moodily. New scars. Each told a story, whether he wanted to remember them or not. Now there would be two parallel white lines across his chest where he had been gouged by the Vandage. Still, he was alive to heal and bear scars, which was something the Vandage could not boast.
The Mongrel sat up on the edge of the low bed with its straw-packed mattress and hard pillow. The ceiling was so low he could not sit fully upright. This storage space in the old cottage had been converted into a bedroom for the son of the widow who was allowing him to stay here while he recovered. Aside from the bed, there was a trunk filled with clothing and a few stacks of household items no longer in use but too good to throw away. Romal got the loop of the scabbard off his wrist and started digging for his clothing, feeling uneasily that it was past time for him to be moving on. The ancient winds of trouble always blew at his back, that was the curse Tollinor Kje had laid upon him when he had defied the Firstmade of the Darthim. He did not want those winds to wither the widow who had treated him well.
Pulling on the black trousers and well-worn leather boots, the Mongrel decided he would head north, toward the great forest of Blackwood. He felt like getting away from people for a long time, to live by himself in the wilderness, setting traps and catching fish for food and just wandering aimlessly. It was not like he belonged anywhere. No nation was home to him, no people claimed his as their own. He was the only one of his kind.
He pulled the dark blue long-sleeved tunic down over his head, then brushed back his mane of coarse black hair with his fingers to tidy it. Doing so, his hands touched his ears and he frowned. It was those ears, rising to distinct points, which marked him as the Mongrel for any to see. Romal was a creature of the Darthim, given unnatural birth and infused with characteristics of the Seven Races. He resembled a Human, but he wasn't. In his body was the strength of a Troll, the quickness of a Snake man, the hidden gills of a Gelydra. He had no kin and no kindred.
Straightening up as much as he could under the slanted ceiling, Romal buckled his sword belt around his waist. This was not the best sword he had ever weilded, but his favorite had chipped in a battle and later broke in half. The sword he carried now was a typical Zhekite blade of good quality but nothing special. As soon as he spotted a better weapon, he would make every effort to claim it. The Mongrel tugged his travel pack closer and took out the two Trom-metal bands which he slipped on his wrists and the Trom-metal diadem which he fastened on his head just below the hairline. Suddenly he felt fully himself again, as if he had been pretending to be someone not cursed to a roaming life of violence. No matter. Every dreamer had to awaken at some point.
Lifting the trapdoor in the floor by its iron ring, he went down the narrow steps that were almost as steep as a ladder, standing in a room with a wooden plank floor and real furniture. Chairs, a table, a bench, all crafted well and made to last. The fireplace against the far wall was cold and cleaned off this time of year of course. In one corner was the bed of the widow, tidied up as was the rest of the cottage. Glass was expensive and rare in the Darthan Age, the windows let in light through oiled cloth.
Widow Bromnel limped in through the open door to outside and smiled as she saw him. It was hard to gauge how old the widow was, childbearing and hard labor had left her bent and worn as highborn ladies never became. In her shapeless cotten dress and with her white hair pinned in a bun behind her head, she probably looked older than she really was. "I greet you this day," she said in the Zhekita dialect.
"Well met and glad to see you," Romal answered. "I think your cooking has healed my wounds faster than any potion or spell ever could. It is time for me to put my feet on the trail again."
"You would be welcome to stay here as long as you like. I felt safer with you under my roof. What burglar or thief would enter where you sleep?" She shook her head slowly. "But I see it in your eyes. You will never linger long in any place, even though you wish to. I know the tales told of you, Romal. Who has not heard them? But I am a good judge of people and I trusted you from the start. Will you not remain here?"
"It's my doom," he said bluntly. "Wherever I go, the ancient winds of trouble blow and people die. I would spare you that." He set his travel pack down and began to untie its straps. "But first, I wish to leave you with fitting payment. A warm bed in a quiet home, solid meals well cooked, tales of this land told by one of its wise women... all these deserve recompense."
She brushed that aside with a gesture of a bony hand. "Ah, it matters not. Today, the King's tax collector is in our village. He and his big brute of a helper. When my husband died, he left that year's taxes unpaid and now, despite all my toil, I have not gathered enough to pay the amount. Last year and this year... it will add up to twenty bronze coins and I have three."
Romal fixed his dark blue eyes on her reproachfully. "I knew nothing of this."
"If I could, I would live in this house where Sifan and I were so happy so many years. Now I must go and stay with my sister and her own family and leave my home behind." She tilted her head as if listening. "Come. See what approaches."
Standing in the doorway, Romal gazed toward the center of the village where the public well stood under its wooden roof. A crowd of perhaps fifteen villagers stood around two men on horseback, well-dressed men who sat on quality saddles and who looked as if they had not missed many meals. The older rider had a ledger sticking up from his saddlebags, and he drew it out now. Beside him, on a sturdy draft horse, his assistant loomed up a head taller than any man in the crowd. Where the tax collector was soft and complacent, the assistant was lean and dangerous-looking. He had a curved saber at his side and a dirk in his belt, and his angry stare showed he would not mind having to use both.
"Squire Tremane and his helper Amgor," said the widow harshly. "They come through this province of Zheka every fall after the harvest and demand what the king has ordained. Behind them is coming a wagon with soldiers to receive larger valuables. Half of our crops and half our animals have already bent sent to the palace." She sighed. "I have nothing to give him, not even a daughter he might take as a serving wench. I know Tremane will rule against me. He will cast me from this house and claim it from the crown, and no one in the crowd dares defy him."
Romal had said nothing. She turned toward him and was surprised to see him holding a long wool mantle that had been hanging from a peg beside the door. "This was your husband's, you said?"
"Yes. Two years has it dangled there. You are welcome to it, Jordyn knows I have no use for it."
The Mongrel grinned wolfishly, his heavy eyebrows lowered. "I think I will purchase it and put it to good use. Here," he pressed a small pouch into her hand. It clinked as she took it. The widow peered inside and saw both bronze and silver coins and two gold pieces from nearby Signarm. "What? Wait, this is enough to buy a farm, let alone an old cloak--"
Her voice broke off. The back door was open, showing only the path to the creek that ran behind the village. Romal was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to consider what to do next, for the sound of hoofs thudded in the dirt outside her home. The tax collector rode up, followed by the sullen crowd who seemed to be considering attacking him.
Bromnel stepped outside to meet him, suddenly standing straighter with a new defiance.
Consulting his ledger, Squire Tremane announced loudly, "Bromnel daughter of Picand, widow of veteran Sifan. It is recorded that you owe the crown taxes from last year as well as the amount due this year, as ordered by His Majesty. Twenty bronze pieces. I ask you for payment in full now."
The old woman turned toward the crowd, all of whom she had known all their lives. "Who shall be my witnesses? Tam the miller? Woffen? Will you swear to what you see me do now?"
"Of course," answered the older of the two men. "Your honor is solid with this village."
"Very well then," she said with a smile. "Watch as if life depends on it." Reaching into the leather pouch, she counted out ten bronze coins, each of which had the trident of Cirkoth on both sides. She handed them to the Tax Collector and counted out loud as she did so. Then she held up a coin that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. "Ten bronze coins. And one of silver, equal to ten bronze. This pays me debt. Has everyone seen this?"
"We have!" the crowd roared with delight. No one had been happy to think they would see the old woman forced from her home. "Now your work here is done!" shouted one villager to the Tax Collector. "Begone."
To his credit, Tremane did not show surprise. He placed the coins carefully in the strongbox which his assistant held out and which was then locked and tied to Amgor's saddle with leather straps. The Tax Collector made a mark in his ledger and lowered it to his own saddlebags. "All is in order, Widow Sifan. Yet may I ask how you came by such a sum? You have no field, no trade. Your husband could not have left you much."
"Not that it is your concern," she snapped, "but Sifan did leave me something of value which I reluctantly sold. I think you should go now. The village will be glad to see your back as you ride away."
Tremane bowed slightly. "I do not expect to be loved by the people," he said. "I am but carrying out my function. Until next harvest, then." He wheeled his steed around and marched it slowly toward the road leading toward the next town. Behind him rode Amgor, staring hatefully at the crowd as if he hoped they would try to attack him and provide an excuse to cut them down. As the two horsemen went from the village, the crowd burst into delighted cheers.
II.
Tremane and his henchman rose from town with no particular haste. The next village was near enough that they would certainly reach it before night set in, and there they could demand lodging and a meal. As their horses trotted lightly along the hard-packed dirt road, the Tax Collector asked Amgor, "Was it not strange that an old widow woman should have a silver coin?"
"She claimed to have sold some trifle left by her husband," growled the former soldier. "Mayhaps. So long as she paid."
"So be it," Tremane said. He gazed at the metal strongbox fastened to the back of his helper's saddle. "We have met our quota and more. That box holds more coins than I have ever seen gathered on one circuit, Amgor. Hopefully my superiors will be pleased."
The sullen man riding beside him did not reply. He knew he was only there to guard the money and to intimidate peasants into turning over what little they had. It was easier service than being in the King's army and safer, yet there was no loot for him personally. Nor did Tremane allow him to demand the services of young women who had no coins to tender. That rankled him...
"Hold, pull up!" the Tax Collector said suddenly. He tugged on the reins and his mild old chestnut mare came to a halt. "There, by those birch trees. I saw..."
"You saw what?" barked Amgor just as a stranger wrapped in a dark mantle flashed from the trees faster than any living thing they had ever seen. The man left the ground in a high tackle that brought him down on top of Tremane with an impact that stunned the fat old man. The Tax Collector blew out all the air from his lungs with a rush. He would not be rising right away.
The stranger was up on his feet, whirling to face the henchman. Part of the mantle had been ripped off and fashioned into a mask that showed nothing but a grim mouth and chin. He stood defiantly with open hands by his sides as Amgor wheeled his steed around and drew his sabre.
"A highwayman, eh?" yelled the ex-soldier. "I'll cleave your head far from its neck!"
"Better men than you have tried," answered the masked man. As Amgor spurred his mount forward and raised his curved blade high for the killing stroke, the stranger leaped in close and smote the bodyguard in the chest with an impact that flung the big man off the saddle and tumbling in the dirt. Hurt but far from beaten, Amgor jumped up with his sabre still in hand just in time for the stranger to whip his own sword in a horizontal arc that sliced neatly through the guard's neck. Body and head fell in different directions.
The robber swung around to glare at the dazed Tremane, then stepped closer with bloody blade in hand.
"Don't slay me, sir! I beg you, don't slay me!" cried the Tax Collector with no attempt at saving any dignity. "Take what you will."
"So I shall." The stranger seized the saddle horn on the late Amgor's horse and vaulted up into it easily. "Wait until dark! Only then may you ride back to the village and tell your tale. Don't make me come looking for you."
"I won't! Spare me, please," Tremane begged.
With a harsh laugh, the stranger urged the horse off at a gallop. After Tremane was well beyond sight, he laughed coldly once again. Romal yanked off the heavy mantle and flung it into the bushes to one side. He was inordinately pleased with himself. True, he could not keep this horse for long; once the Tax Collector sent a messenger to the court, the King's soldiers would be searching for it. By then, Romal would be at the mountain pass where the border to Signarm began and he would continue on foot. Nor would he be destitute.
The Mongrel reached behind him and fondled the strongbox full of coins. Perhaps he should return to the village in a few days and give the people back what they had paid. But no. If the King's spies overheard that the townsfolk had kept their tax money, there would be brutal reprisals. Someone would be bound to talk and give the game away. Too bad. Romal admitted to himself that he was glad to be able to keep the strongbox with just cause. He could only be a little virtuous at a time.
9/21/2014
f
