《The Last Question - A Dark Fantasy [Dead men tell the best tales entry]》
Chapter One: Roge
Roge Lifebane leaned his thin frame on his broom at the edge of the balcony, observing the dust cloud on the horizon being kicked up by the column of men riding towards the monastery. It had been a hot, dry day, the easterly wind blowing dust from the desert below and up the side of the mountain. Any moisture would have long since been wicked out of the air, leaving the dry smell of hot sands and dry earth, and the ever-present dust.
He ran his hand through his sweat-slicked, short-cropped hair. At least when the wind blew from the desert, there was less of a chance that life would find its way into the inner building. Squinting his brown eyes against the setting Sun in the west, Roge tried to see the men. The dust they were kicking up caught the low sun in the sky and formed a haze that made it all the more difficult to see. They would not be here before tomorrow anyway. The way up was long.
Roge stretched, holding the broom above his head with both hands, then went back to cleaning the balcony. The sound of the few orphans in the monastery rose up, their chores done for the day. In this hour, between the scorching heat of the day and the frigid cold of the desert night, they were allowed to play in the yard.
He checked the smooth floor for any signs of life, then followed this with an inspection of the walls, making sure no new holes had formed and that no moss had taken hold. He¡¯d never seen moss grow in the arid air of the monastery, but he knew his duty. That complete, he opened the doors and went in to continue his seventh round of the day.
The monastery had stood for over two thousand years. It has had many names over the centuries. It started as the abode of Sait Ja¡¯Alan of the Rock, who later renamed it the Fort of the Reanimator. When the empire ruled here, it was called The House of the Half Skull or, less favorably by the people, The Palace of Secrets Extraction. When the empire splintered, the priests retained autonomy and made this a place holy to all, returning it to its origins and calling it Castle Sait Ja¡¯Alan.
Throughout all these years, it had another name, spelled alternatively D¡¯ale or D¡¯ell, used first by those who spent their lives maintaining it. They dealt with its miracles daily yet also took care of the mundane. They separated the two so that they should not, or almost never, meet. The name¡¯s origin was lost to time; none remembered it as a contraction of the first prophet¡¯s exclamation since that language was no longer spoken by any who lived.
The prophet, having seen what lay at the peak of the mountain, had exclaimed to her followers, ¡°Truly, dead men tell the best tales.¡± Over the years, the place where dead men tell the best tales had been shortened to the Dead Tell or Dead Tales, and then eventually D¡¯ell.
Surrounded by its walls and fortifications, its yards and livestock pens, its water reservoirs, kitchens, and dormitories stood a building on a raised hill. It had chambers available for the pilgrims who made it up the mountain with their gruesome cargo. Each room had a balcony that could be completely shut for privacy yet opened to allow for easy ventilation and cleaning. The building had a small internal courtyard, accessible through one door, though only acolytes ever went there.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
A stone stood in the center of the courtyard. It was the size of a human head, a dull reddish-brown in color. Viewed from one side, it just looked like a regular boulder. The other side could easily be mistaken for a rough-hewn skull, though no person had ever claimed to have carved it. In fact, the stone had stood there long before the building and the monastery were built.
Roge Lifebane swept the entry room, being careful to look under any piece of furniture and near any corner. He has performed this duty for most of the thirty-odd years of his life since he was old enough to hold a broom and be trusted to do the job well.
Three ceremonies had been performed today, a pittance compared to what the building could handle. Roge checked the seals on the other rooms, made sure they were undisturbed since they had been swept of life, then went to look for Edmur Eyser Necroshield.
The master of acolytes was bent over a table in one of the chambers that had been used today. His strong frame had not weakened during his fifty years of serving the monastery, though Roge had noticed that Edmund Eyser was bending with more difficulty, using his hand to lower himself down and lever himself back up.
¡°There are people riding up, a whole column of them,¡± Roge said, standing by the door.
Edmund Eyser turned his face to him, his pale blue eyes looking at Roge from his stooped position. His hair, which he¡¯d allowed to grow long around the edges ever since his bald spot expanded to cover most of the top of his head, flopped over and covered one of his eyes. ¡°Probably some baron or a rich merchant¡¯s son. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll find out soon enough. Help me with the body.¡±
Roge stepped into the room, looking at the place of honor set on the wall of the room that bordered the inner courtyard of the building. His eyes had learned to gloss over it unless he made a concerted effort to notice the body.
The place had been configured as a bed for this ceremony. In it lay the body of a young men. It was dressed with in a simple tunic, covered in blood. His eyes were closed as if in peaceful sleep, but the slit throat below it belied the nature of the death that had taken the man.
¡°I dislike the murders,¡± said Roge, his voice even, as he walked over to the young man¡¯s body.
Edmund Eyser grunted as he rose up from the table he had been cleaning, then walked over.
Roge couldn¡¯t tell if the grunt was a response to his comment or to the physical exertion of getting up. It did not matter; they had seen enough murders brought to the monastery over the years.
What Roge really disliked was that some pilgrims left the bodies once they were done with the ceremony. He had observed over the years that the reaction had mostly to do with the outcome of the ceremony, yet how likely was a happy outcome at a ceremony for the deceased?
Bundling the body with cloth¡ªthe one thing the monastery insisted each pilgrim pay for if the body was not wrapped in one when it arrived¡ªhe grabbed it by the feet. Edmund Eyser grabbed its shoulders, and together, they carried the body to a cart outside the door to the chamber.
¡°Take care of it, and you are done for today,¡± said the master of acolytes.
¡°The other chambers?¡± asked Roge.
¡°All done. This was the last one.¡±
Roge wheeled the cart through the now-empty corridors of the building, reaching the eastern side of the building.
The building, facing the desert on this side, was built on a sheer cliff face dropping down hundreds of feet. Round holes were cut into the wall, about the circumference of a man¡¯s arm. They were situated at the height of the cart.
He rolled the cart over to one of the holes and unshuttered it. Pushing the body along the cart, he launched it into its internal resting place at the bottom of the cliff, along with the bones and decaying bodies of all the other poor dead who were not taken away for burial elsewhere.
Chapter Two: Nathye
Nathye spurred the horse further on the trail. They had left the fields behind, the road sloping up, becoming rocky. Few trees sprouted, holding on to what little moisture they could attain from the air and the water their roots were able to reach. The air smelled clean and dry the higher they rose.
The black horse, all sleekness and muscles, was frothing at the mouth. He would not be able to keep up the pace for much longer. Still, it had been his father¡¯s horse, and there was no one who would now tell him what to do.
¡°Your Grace, the animals will not long be able to maintain such a pace,¡± said the predictable voice of Ser Dafeld, his father¡¯s castellan.
¡°They do not have to,¡± said Nathye, urging the black horse onwards. They would all have to learn to treat him as the Duke now.
The monastery was a day¡¯s ride away. He had to get there, had to get an answer from his father. Looking back, he saw the row of flagging horses behind them. His horse was more motivated than most, smelling the scent of death mingled with the familiarity of a favored rider. Still, the rest were getting tired as well. None of them understood his urgency, why he had them saddle their horses and ride for the D¡¯ell with such force.
He thought back to the night before when his father called him in to talk. The fool was content with a middling dukedom, enjoying his good food and good wine. He¡¯d taken to visiting the widows of neighboring villages and hosting dinner parties. Minstrels and traveling troupes had become a regular occurrence at Bewic.
There was no greatness there, no ambition. Nathyne would not live his life as a fop, a dandelion sucking in the sun, dying when the wind carried his life seeds away. No, he would be as the emperors of old, as the mighty Plita River that swept anything in its wake. He would be remembered.
As his father doddered on about some play or another that he wanted to see, Nathye got up and went to the wine cabinet. ¡°Shall we have some of the special red that you purchased to celebrate the new play?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°Yes, yes. Please open that aged Berion,¡± he said, his eyes closed, imaging the play already.
Nathye opened the bottle and poured them both glasses. His back to his father, he pulled out the powder he so painstakingly attained in one of his visits to Pacot and dropped a small amount into his father¡¯s glass.
Swirling both glasses to air the wine, he watched the rich dark red of the wine settle, leaving a pale red film on the side of the glass to slowly descend and join the rest. The powder dissolved, leaving no visible trace. The gray merchant had promised it would be so, yet Nathye had no way to test that his father wouldn¡¯t notice it.
Steeling himself, he brought both glasses over, handing his father the glass. His heart was pounding, but the did was now done. He would not go down in obscurity.
¡°Ah. Thank you, Nathye,¡± said his father, raising the glass. ¡°To good life and good plays!¡±
¡°To great life!¡± said Nathye, raising his glass in kind, then bringing the glass to his lip and drinking liberally from it. It was, indeed, a good wine.
His father did the same, again closing his eyes, savoring the taste.
They sat there in silence, enjoying the wine, when his father¡¯s breathing became labored. His eyes bulged, and he looked at Nathye.
¡°Father? What¡¯s wrong?¡± The next few seconds would determine if he was successful.
His father opened his mouth and said, ¡°I can¡¯t¡ª¡±
Nathye got up. ¡°Father?¡±
¡°I can¡¯t¡ª¡± hand pounding on the table. It was a good thing his father had put the glass down before.
Nathye moved the wine glasses away, looking at his father. ¡°What can I do?¡±
¡°Nathye, you¡ must¡ know¡ª¡± He must have known he was dying. He was struggling to speak now, having a hard time breathing, though his airways weren¡¯t blocked.
¡°Father, what do I do?¡± Nathye said, making his eyes large as if in surprise or shock.
¡°The word¡ª¡± his father started, then, finally succumbing to the poison, he took one last gasp of air and fell face down onto the table.
¡°Your Grace, we should camp here for the night,¡± said Ser Dafeld.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
They had ridden hard, Nathye pushing on and the entire group of people following. He was sure he had lamed his horse, but he didn¡¯t care.
¡°We are not stopping,¡± he said. ¡°We carry on.¡±
¡°This is where we leave the horses, your Grace.¡±
Ser Dafeld had told him about this. The path up to the monastery became steep, and people walked the last of the way up. He would have fixed this road had it been his. The monastery had stood for thousands of years, after all. Maybe this was how the monastery ensured that people only came up if they had a great need.
¡°Very well then, we leave the horses here, but we go on,¡± Nathye said. ¡°Set a carrying rotation for the body. Put me in the first round.¡±
Dismounting, they did what they could for the horses and ate a quick meal, then Nathye and three other guards each took one of his father¡¯s shrouded limbs and started the arduous climb. The men were tired, as was Nathye, but he could see they were too proud to show weakness in front of their new Duke.
Pushing up, struggling under the weight of his father, who had enjoyed a lot of food and wine, Nate cursed the reason for this trip.
The night before, once his father had stopped moving, he emptied his own glass back into the bottle, cleaned the glass thoroughly, and made sure to put it back on the shelf. He looked around, making sure there was no other sign of him being there, then opened the door and looked around. No servants were around.
Stepping out, he closed the door, took a few steps back, then walked forward and knocked on the door.
¡°Father?¡± he called out clearly. ¡°You asked to see me?¡±
When, obviously, no reply came, he knocked again. One of the cleaning maids came by to hear what the commotion was.
¡°He should be in there, my lord,¡± she said.
He nodded at her, then opened the door.
¡°Father? Father!?!?!¡± he yelled out in surprise, rushing into the room.
The maid, hearing his concern, came after him to see what was amiss. By then, he was by his father¡¯s prone form, holding his hand, trying to get him to wake.
Looking back, he said, ¡°Call the seneschal and the castellan. Hurry!¡± Turning back to his father, he continued, ¡°Father, father!¡±
When the two arrived, a couple of minutes removed, he was sitting opposite his father, head in his hands.
What followed was out of his hands. The two took command, organized taking care of his father¡¯s body, and sent him to bed. He was happy to play the shocked son, not yet understanding what was going on.
The surprise came when the seneschal, Ser Ancis, came to him in the early morning hours and dragged him to the family¡¯s crypt. Grabbing a torch, they made their meandering way inside, past his uncles¡¯ and grandfather¡¯s tombs, past older, unremembered family members.
¡°Why are we in this part? Surely there is space for my father elsewhere,¡± Nathye asked.
¡°Bide, Your Grace,¡± Sir Ancis said, continuing their walk. At times, he used the torch to burn some cobwebs off to clear the way, the smell of the burning pitch mingling with the undisturbed dust of ages past.
¡°Do you know what is here?¡± Sir Ancis finally asked Nathye, coming to a stop in front of a non-descript pillar.
Nathan was shivering, mostly from the cold. ¡°The dead,¡± he said. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. He had waited all night for someone to come and accuse him of murder, but no one had. Sir Ancis, seeing him so when he came to fetch him, patted him on the shoulder and told him to come along.
¡°Your family is not the only thing residing in this crypt. Has your father talked about the word?¡±
Nthye almost said, ¡°He was about to,¡± but caught himself just in time. ¡°A word?¡± he asked instead.
¡°The word,¡± Sir Ancis said. ¡°Your father never explained the entirety of it to me, but there is a power here. It is enslaved with a word and gives the head of the family power. If you do not enslave it, though, it will control you.¡±
¡°That¡¯s superstition,¡± said Nathye.
¡°So I thought. Your father told me about your great-grandfather, Duke Ephel.¡±
¡°Ephel The Incompetent who almost lost the house?¡±
¡°I would not presume to call him that,¡± said the seneschal, ¡°but I understand that he never deigned to use the word. Your grandfather had to beg him for it, then assert his control on whatever lies here in order to regain the fortune of the house.¡±
It was past midnight by the time they arrived at the gates of the monastery. One sliver of a moon was in the sky, the other barely visible on the horizon. Stars shone through the clear sky, making it possible to walk up the narrow trail.
The temperature dropped the higher they went. Cold wind from the desert blew past the monastery and down the mountain, making them shiver. Still, they pushed on, Nathye leading with Ser Dafeld bringing up the back, urging the stragglers onwards. One man had twisted his ankle and had to be left behind to be collected when they returned.
Nathye had rotated three times through carrying his father¡¯s corpse. He was not looking forward to a fourth, reconsidering the entire endeavor, when he took a step up the trail and saw the walls of the monastery peeking up above the rocks ahead.
¡°We¡¯re almost there,¡± cried the man behind him, a chorus of happy calls flowing back up from the tired men farther down the trail.
With renewed vigor, they made the last leg of the trip, stopping before the large gates. There were no guards, no one to greet them. The gates were closed.
Using his open palm to bang on the gate, Nathye yelled, ¡°Open up!¡±
There was no response. He waited a minute, his men pulling out water skins and quenching their thirst. He did the same, taking some water from Ser Dafeld, then faced the gate again.
¡°Open!¡± he again ordered, emphasizing the command with his hand to the gate.
The castellan joined him, took out his sword, and, using its pommel, struck the gate a few strong blows. ¡°Open up in the name of the Duke of Bewic!¡± he yelled.
There was noise on the other side, some poor soul finally pulled out of slumber to arrive at the gate. Nathye could hear, ¡°Hold,¡± while someone fumbled with the latch on the other side, then a side gate was pulled open, and a bleary face peered at them.
¡°It is the middle of the night. You made the climb up now?¡± the man asked, looking them over.
¡°We must consult the dead,¡± said Ser Dafeld.
¡°You may sleep in the courtyard for now, but the dead can wait till the morn.¡±
Nathye pulled out his sword and walked up to the men. ¡°The dead have forever, but I do not. Wake up whoever you need. I will speak to my father tonight!¡±
Chapter Three: Roge
Rapid bangs on his door were followed by a loud ¡°Wake up!¡±
Roge Lifebane turned on his cot and opened one eye, looking around. It was still dark, too early for the work to begin. No pilgrims would be arriving before mid-morning.
¡°Roge, wake up! Edmur Eyser wants you!¡± came the voice of one of the children. He thought it was Stephye Mortguard.
¡°I¡¯m up,¡± he yelled, coughing up the night phlegm and rubbing his eyes with the bases of his palms.
Getting out of bed, he quickly dressed and made it out of the building, seeing other doors in the corridor slightly ajar and eyes peering out to see what the commotion was about. A fox had probably made it into one of the dallen cages. Walking out of the dormitories, he gauged it to be well past midnight by the position of the sliver moon in the sky.
Edmur Eyser Necroshield was speaking with two pilgrims while the rest of their group was resting on the ground nearby. The pilgrims appeared well dressed, and a shrouded body lay on one of the carts the acolytes kept in the courtyard for such occasions. Were these the ones I saw in the distance yesterday evening? How had they arrived tonight?
He walked over to Edmur Eyser, looking at the two pilgrims. One was young, though he seemed to be in charge. The other was older, about Edmur Eyser¡¯s age. A baron¡¯s son, as the master of acolytes predicted?
¡°There is Roge. We will set up right now,¡± said Edmur Eyser upon seeing him.
¡°Set up?¡± asked Roge. ¡°Do we need rooms for the party to rest?¡±
¡°No,¡± said the young lordling, staring directly at Roge. ¡°I must speak to my father immediately¡ª¡± he pointed at the body on the cart.
¡°At night?¡± asked Roge.
¡°We have already had this conversation,¡± said Edmur Eyser. ¡°Please bring a ceremonial meal up to the building. I will help the men carry up the body.¡±
Shaking his head in wonderment, Roge walked past the dallen coops toward the kitchen. The dallens were all asleep, huddled together against the cold, their combined form looking like a large pelt in the low light of the stars.
The door to one of the coops stood ajar. Roge detoured toward it and secured the coop, looking around to make sure no dallen had slipped out. This was the responsibility of the younger orphans. He would have to speak to them about it in the morning.
The small storage hut stood by the kitchen. It contained smoked dallen meat to be preserved for the use of the acolytes or the pilgrims when there was no time to kill and cook a proper meal.
The practice, while not strictly required for the miracle to occur, had been observed since the time of Sait Ja¡¯Alan. Before speaking, the living would eat to separate themselves from the dead. The monastery would offer a simple meal, partly to strengthen the pilgrims after the arduous climb and partly to encourage donations for the upkeep of the monastery.
Grabbing a few plates and some smoked dallen, Roge made his way to the central building. In the dim light, he could see the two men and Edmur Eyser carrying the body into the building at the top of the inner hill, the rest of the group following.
For a moment, he thought he saw something else move by their feet, but the light was too dim and the distance too great, and he quickly dismissed it as remnants of his evaporated night¡¯s dreams.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Roge entered the inner building, following the sounds to the chamber that the master of acolytes had selected for the ceremony. Someone had lit a couple of torches, making it easier to see the way, though after so many years here, he could have walked this building with his eyes closed.
The group of pilgrims was milling outside the chamber while voices came from inside. He walked up, juggling the plates and meat, and pushed his way through and into the room.
¡°Roge,¡± said Edmur Eyser, ¡°set up the meal in the next chamber. The Duke will eat, but his companions might also partake.¡±
So, a Duke, not a Baron. And the dead body a Duke as well.
¡°I will,¡± said Roge, stepping out of the room and once more through the group blocking the entrance. The men were playing with something, though Roge was focused on his load and couldn¡¯t see what it was.
Managing to open the door to the next room without dropping his burden, he quickly set up a table for the men, laying out the provisions and the stack of plates. He lit a couple of torches and added a pitcher of water from a cistern that was always kept on hand. That done, he stepped back out and into the room where the two Dukes, one alive and one dead, were preparing to have a conversation.
¡°The meal is ready,¡± he said.
¡°Your Grace, why don¡¯t you go and prepare yourself? We will finish setting things up here,¡± said Edmund Eyser.
The young looked at the shrouded form. ¡°No one else is to talk to him,¡± he said.
¡°He will only return to talk when one person is in the room and the door is closed, your grace,¡± said Edmund Eyser, ¡°and even then, only once. After that, there will be no more conversations with him.¡±
¡°Very well.¡±
¡°How do you want him? Lying down or upright?¡±
¡°Upright. He will have his dignity,¡± said the young man, the older one nodding. With that, they both stepped out of the room.
The power of the rock at the center of the D¡¯ell had been used for thousands of years, though no one knew how it did what it did. Even the gods, when they deigned to mention it, did not know who placed the rock here.
Whenever a dead body and a live person were placed in isolation near the rock, the dead would temporarily be granted reprieve in order to talk to the living. They would only speak the truth and would then return to their everlasting rest. They would only do so once and only speak to one person.
Before the building had been built, only one pair of living and dead could converse at any one time. The living would carry the dead to the rock, and when they were close enough, the power of the rock would take place, and the dead would awaken and speak. Later, it was understood that isolation was what mattered; hence, the building and chambers were built. Each chamber created its own isolation, and once the door was closed on one living and one dead, the magic would take its course.
The gaggle of men followed the Duke to the next room, all most likely famished and tired from the climb. Edmund Eyser and Roge were left alone.
¡°Why tonight?¡± asked Roge.
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Edmund Eyser, ¡°but I¡¯ve seen such requests in the past, and I¡¯ve seen desperation. There is something beneath the skin here I would not like to scratch.¡±
Together, they removed the shroud from the body. It had not been dead for long, just beginning to smell. It had traveled with these men up the mountain, and most such bodies arrived in a much worse condition. It had, at least, been cleaned and washed before being unceremoniously put on a horse, the odor of which rose up from the shroud.
They took the body off the cart and wrestled it onto a sitting position in the place of honor by the wall closest to the inner courtyard, where the rock resided. The body was stiff, rigor mortis having set in but not yet relinquished the body. They could not bend it to make it sit, but they could lash the chest in a standing position. That complete, they placed a chair in front of the body in case the young Duke needed it or fainted.
Just then, the sound of a door slamming came from the other room. There were urgent knocks, and the pilgrims yelled for their Duke.
Edmund Eyser said, ¡°Keep watch while I check what has happened and bring the young Duke back.¡±
Roge walked over to a counter next to the door, where another pitcher of water was prepared in case those having the last conversation needed it. He checked that it was full, then turned around to regard the dead Duke and what was about to happen here. Despite all his years at the monastery, he had never talked to the dead.
The noises from the corridor kept coming, something about a door. Roge wasn¡¯t paying attention until a head, one of the Duke¡¯s retinue, stuck itself into the room and regarded the Duke. Not noticing Roge was in the room, the head retreated, pulling the door shut with him.
Roge was alone with the dead Duke.
Chapter Four: Nathye
Nathye was exhausted. He had not slept much the night before and had ridden hard all day and climbed through the night, helping carry his father. What should have been his first victory had become a nightmare, one where some ancient power linked to his house would deprive him of his rightful place in the world. It was all his father¡¯s fault.
Ser Dafeld had convinced him of the urgency of talking to his father. The dour man had served their family since before Nathye was born and was never one to jest. He had taken the lack of ¡®the word¡¯ as a serious threat to the house. Nathye would not rest until he knew what this word was and had secured what power drove their house to its heights. He was not willing to wait until tomorrow, not willing to let his father drift further into the restful sleep of the dead.
The acolytes of this monastery were a strange lot. They all had names like Deathstealer and Lifedefier, as if they were ferocious tribesmen of the Suenu plains. Yet they were simple people who wielded brooms and wore homespun habits; the most dangerous weapons they carried were simple knives.
The older acolyte had finally agreed to hold the speaking ceremony immediately. Nathye was ready to draw his sword again if needed. The younger one, Lifesbane, was easily controlled by his master. They were finally on the way up to the main building, Nathye once more carrying his father¡¯s body. This would be the last time.
Nathye scoffed at the need for the meal before the ceremony, but he was hungry enough after the day¡¯s exertions, and so were his men. If the master of acolytes wanted to provide one, he would partake.
He had heard of the D¡¯ell before. Everyone had, though none since the empire had lain claim to it. This place had the strategic value of a rotten bridge over a dried river bed in a hundred-year draught, other than the power to talk to the dead.
Legends had it that the Great Conqueror Chamai Gani of Al-Yeron had once marched an army all the way to the gates of the monastery. The priests at the time had opened the gates to him and bid him enter. He had tried any conceivable way to move the rock, trying to take it with him. His soldiers died trying exotic magics to dislodge the rock from its place at the top of the mountain. After a year and a day in the monastery, a year and a day where he had conversations with his dead soldiers who told him it could not be done, he gifted the priests with a better central building to replace the one he had destroyed, as well as orphans to become acolytes from the many he had created during his conquering. He then marched his army back down the mountain and never returned.
¡°Place the body on the table here,¡± said Edmund Eyser.
Nathye lifted his father¡¯s corpse by the shoulder, Ser Dafeld grabbing the other. Together, they jostled the body onto the table, with Edmund Eyser and one of the guards doing the same by the feet.
The body had begun to smell. Nathye wrinkled his nose and moved away. At least there¡¯s the smell of horse masking most of the decay.
¡°We will place the body at the place of honor there¡±¡ªEdmund Eyser pointed to a niche in the wall to one side of the chamber. ¡°There is water for you at the back there, and we will have a place for you to sit if you so desire.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Just then, the younger acolyte stepped into the room, carrying plates and some food.
¡°Roge,¡± said Edmur Eyser, ¡°set up the meal in the next chamber. The Duke will eat, but his companions might also partake.¡±
¡°I will,¡± said the young man and left.
¡°Do you know what to expect?¡± asked Edmund Eyser.
¡°I expect I will speak to my father,¡± said Nathye. Vaguely, he heard his men joking in the hallway.
¡°You will have a few minutes. The dead cannot lie, but they can choose what they answer to some extent. Sometimes they know more than what they did in life, but that is rare.¡±
¡°More?¡± asked Ser Dafeld.
¡°They have passed on. We think they might have gained more insight or seen more. We do not know.¡±
¡°Is there anything I need to do?¡±
¡°Have the meal, and think of the questions you would like to ask or the things left unsaid between you. Your next conversation will be when you have both passed on.¡±
A shudder went through Nathye. He did not relish the conversation with his father.
An empty-handed Roge made his way past the men and into the room.
¡°The meal is ready,¡± he said.
¡°Your Grace, why don¡¯t you go and prepare yourself? We will finish setting things up here,¡± said Edmund Eyser.
Nathye looked at the shrouded form. ¡°No one else is to talk to him,¡± he said.
¡°He will only return to talk when one person is in the room and the door is closed, Your Grace,¡± said Edmund Eyser, ¡°and even then, only once. After that, there will be no more conversations with him.¡±
¡°Very well.¡±
¡°How do you want him? Lying down or upright?¡±
¡°Upright. He will have his dignity,¡± he said, then walked out.
His men followed him into the nearby chamber, where food had been laid out. He grabbed a plate and took some of the smoked dallen, as well as some water. Sitting down he took a few bites, though his appetite was suddenly gone. His mouth was dry and the water did not seem to quench his thirst.
The men were quiet, subdued, knowing what was to come. The mirth he heard previously in the hallway had disappeared now that he was about to speak to his father.
¡°Your Grace,¡± said Ser Dafeld, ¡°are you ready?¡±
Looking up, he saw all the men looking at him. His hands felt clammy, and his stomach lurched.
¡°Leave me. I need time to myself,¡± he said.
The men looked to Ser Dafeld, who must have nodded since they got up and cleared the room, taking their plates with them.
¡°Your Grace?¡± Ser Dafeld was still here.
¡°Out!¡± yelled Nathye. He got up, walked to the door, and stood there, ignoring the old castellan.
Ser Dafeld walked past him to the hallway, and Nathye slammed the door shut.
What was he doing? Will his father blame him for the murder? Will his father even know? The Master of Acolytes, that cursedly cursedly helpful old man had said that the dead had more knowledge than when they died.
¡°Arrrgh!¡± Nathye vented his frustration. He looked around the room, grabbing a plate and readying to break it when he saw movement in the corner of the room.
There was a live dallen sniffing around the room, its fur-covered form and large round ears mocking Nathye¡¯s frustration with its indifference. Stomping his feet in anger, Nathye chased the dallen around the chamber; the tiny animal, not used to people causing it harm, only moved a few steps each time. Kicking it for good measure, Nathye finally got it to cower at the corner of the room.
With a final act of anger and frustration at the gods, at his father, at whatever power resided in his family¡¯s crypt, he lobbed the plate in his hand with all his force at the creature. The plate went through the dallen¡¯s neck, decapitating it in an instant, then continued to hit the wall and shatter. Blood and earthenware shards sprayed the wall and the floor, the small body making some last grasping motions with its legs as the heart pumped its last blood out the neck and onto the floor.
There were noises at the door and pounding. Someone was trying to get in, yelling Nathye¡¯s name. It sounded muffled as if coming from far away.
The acolytes of the monastery, the Lifebanes, Necroshields, and Mortguards, have failed.
Inside the room was now someone alive and something dead.
Chapter Five: Roge
Roge stared at the dead duke, his arms hugging himself, heart pounding. The Duke was silent again now, never to return to the living. He had given Roge his warnings and advice and had then transformed into that which Roge disliked, a murder.
Should he trust the old duke? The dead do not lie.
Roge had heard of pilgrims talking about their last conversations with the deceased. They had trudged up the mountain and professed their love or cried their loneliness to the one who left them behind. They had suffered through the long climb, carrying the remains of a parent or a lost friend, just to settle a matter of inheritance or air a lasting grievance. A knight had once brought the body of a deceased retainer to find out where the armor had gone off to.
Roge had not, in all his life and all the stories he had been told by the current and previous masters of acolytes, heard of a deceased giving such a dire warning. He had to hide. Now.
Any remnant of the aborted night¡¯s sleep had evaporated from his body. Getting up, he moved to the door and listened. He could hear the pounding on the chamber nearby still. Carefully, he pulled the door open, trying to make no sound.
The hinges creaked, and Roge froze, waiting to see if anyone noticed. The pounding continued, with conversations and yelling of ¡°Open up, Your Grace,¡± drowning out any other sound. Emboldened, he pulled the door fully open and stepped out. Edmur Eyser, as well as the duke¡¯s entire retinue, were clustered around the other chamber¡¯s entrance.
The way out of the building was blocked, and they would search outside once they discovered what had happened. He had to find another place to hide. Turning the other way, he walked around the building. None of the other chambers was safe. They would be the first to be examined. He came across the door to the inner courtyard, but that place was bare except for the sacred stone.
At last, he arrived at the chutes used to launch the bodies into the desert below. He could not come up with any better idea than this. The old duke had been clear that he must not be found.
Unshuttering one of the covers mid-row, he climbed inside, feet first. He had done so before when cleaning the holes, though only with a rope securing him lest he fall. The chute was a small, narrow tunnel, about half the length of a grown man. It descended at a shallow angle, enough to make it easy to slide the bodies down but not enough to fall in with one accidentally. He lowered the shutter behind him, then, on all fours, shivering in the freezing night air of the desert, he prayed to any gods that were listening.
It was half an hour later when he heard the searchers.
¡°This is the last part. He can¡¯t be in the building,¡± said one of the men.
¡°He didn¡¯t leave,¡± said the other.
¡°What are these? Round window?¡±
There was the sound of one of the shutters being lifted.
¡°It¡¯s where they dump the bodies,¡± said the first.
¡°Is there a grave on the other side?¡± asked the second.
¡°It¡¯s at the bottom of the cliff, in the desert. If he left this way, he¡¯s dead already.¡±
¡°The young duke can still speak with him,¡± said the second.
¡°A thousand years of bones and decay lie below, and I do not savor wading it in search of a single acolyte.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
They were quiet after that, continuing their search.
The chute¡¯s surface had ground smooth over the years, the dead taking their tax on the imperfection as they slid by to their everlasting rest below. Still, Roge¡¯s hands ached from the angle, and his knees grated against the unyielding rock.
The cold desert wind, finding the bottom of the cliff, caressed the dead, then rose up and over the mountain. As it passed the chutes, it made keening sounds to mourn the dead that others had left behind. His acolyte¡¯s habit and night¡¯s sandals were not good protection against the biting wind. His feet and ass were sticking out of the hole, exposed. He was losing any feeling in his lower extremities, and his balls and cock had retreated as far up as they could as if he were a boy again.
Exhausted, he turned on his side, trying to lie down in the hole, legs pulled up to his chest, shivering. The cold stone cocooned him like the womb of the mother he never knew. The cold flowed around him, keeping his core warm.
He must have fallen asleep at some point. He was dreaming of portents and warnings. The old duke was floating in the air, strapped to something Roge could not see. His eyes were gone, in their place was light shining out. He was looking down at Roge, mouth not moving, yet Roge could hear his voice booming.
Below that apparition, Roge could see the young duke, sword drawn, fire behind him. Roge was on his knees, pleading. Neither of them was paying attention to him. Instead, they just kept on with their actions, their demands, the old duke speaking warnings, the young duke making demands.
Roge woke.
It was still dark, and the angle of the chute did not allow for much starlight to shine in.
There was the sound of a cart being pushed. The men had returned. Roge listened. The cart was coming towards the chutes. They had come to dispose of the Duke¡¯s body. If they opened the chute he was in, he would be discovered immediately.
¡°Let¡¯s use that one. You, use the other,¡± said one of the voices.
Which hole were they aiming for? What other?
He levered himself to his hands and feet again, trying not to make a sound. The carts were creaking, the men not paying attention. The howling of the wind was masking any small sounds he might make as the shutters rattled in place.
He slowly stretched out, letting his feet dangle above the desert. Bringing them down to find the wall, he tried to find purchase below. His feet were cold and numb, and he could not feel a thing through his sandals.
He had very little time left. Using one foot, he pushed the sandal off the other, feeling it tumble into the abyss. He then felt with his bare foot, but there was not a seam wide enough for him to stick his toe into.
He continued lowering himself, slowly backing off, using his arms and hands to keep himself anchored so he wouldn¡¯t fall to join those he had ministered to over the years. The angle of the chute and the smoothness of the stone did not make this easy, but by pressing his hands into the side of the tunnel where the stone was rougher, he was able to find traction.
His stomach was now pressing against the edge of the chute, half his body outside the monastery proper, a weird moth emerging from his transforming slumber. Still he found nowhere to place his feet. His hands were scraped, his weight pulling him down.
The cart had knocked into the shutter on the other side of the chute, and one of the men was speaking.
¡°Pull it back. We need to raise the shutter first.¡±
With seconds left, he had little choice. He allowed his body to slide until only his arms were inside the chute. The edge of the chute trapped his habit against his body, exposing him from the stomach down. As his body slid down along the external stone wall of the monastery, his knees, balls, cock, and stomach all skinned. The only thing saving him from screaming was the numbing cold that deadened the pain.
He looked to his right. The next chute was close by. Swinging one arm over, he grabbed the ledge with his hand. His other arm slipped, his hand barely grasping the rim of the chute.
He dangled there between the living and the dead, one hand grasping each chute, arms spread like a moth just emerged from its cocoon. And as a moth emerged too soon, the sun not yet risen, the color of his wings had not yet been revealed.
A body came from a chute further out, falling down into the night.
His hands trembled, holding on. They were numb, and he was exhausted and in pain. He almost let go, joining those who took their final flight. The shutter was raised, and he heard the men again.
¡°Push him through.¡±
A body came, sailing by majestically. It emerged from the chute and angled over Roge, diving into the desert below. He could not make out any details, both moons having set, but the wind took that moment to subside, and the smell of the body hit him in shock.
His grasp firmed, the color of his wings a match for the night.
Chapter Six: Nathye
Nathye brought his booted foot down on the remains of the dead dallen again and again, stomping it into a meat pie and splashing blood on the floor and walls. He did not remember moving towards the creature, but could now not bring himself to stomp until there was nothing left of the infernal thing.
The creature had come to life, speaking to Nathye. He had come to speak to his father, and instead some horror from the beyond had taken control of a furry excuse for a light meal or a child¡¯s pet, and had prophesized Nathye¡¯s doom.
Nathye was shocked at first. Faintly, in the background, he heard noises, but could not bring himself to look away from the horror. Then, when the thing had finally stopped describing, in detail, what will happen to Nathye, stopped mocking him, it just went back to being a dead, decapitated morsel.
Hands grabbed Nathye, pulling him back from the evil thing on the floor, the thing that now resembled a rat that had been run over by a farmer¡¯s cart on market day.
¡°Nathye, Your Grace, are you well?¡± asked Ser Dafeld.
Nathye, seeing that the meat pie on the floor was no longer speaking, no longer screaming out his secrets, pulled his hands away from the castellan¡¯s grip. Turning around, he saw his retinue and the master of acolytes all looking at him.
The master of acolytes was looking at the corner of the room where the dead dallen lay. ¡°Your Grace,¡± he said, ¡°would you like to talk about what you heard?¡±
¡°No. I want to speak to my father,¡± Nathye said, pushing his way through the group and out the door.
He walked into the other chamber, seeing his father strapped to the wall, awaiting their conversation.
It could not be worse. Breathing deeply, he looked down at himself and saw the blood splatters from the dallen on his pants. His father would have to forgive this too.
¡°Close the door when you are ready,¡± said Edmund Eyser from the hallway.
Clenching his fist, taking one last look at his father¡¯s peaceful face, he turned around and slammed the door shut.
He stayed there, back to his father, waiting for the men to speak, to lob accusations at him. Nothing came.
Nathye turned around, looking at his father, who was still peacefully sleeping the sleep of the death.
¡°Father?¡±
¡°Father?¡± he said again, repeating the faked conversation from the night of the murder, this time in earnest.
His father remained silent. Was his ghost refusing to talk? Nathye had not known this was possible.
He walked over to the body. Drawing his sword, he reversed his grip and used the pommel to poke his father in the chest.
¡°Father?¡±
Using the pommel to try to shift the head, he found it stiffly held in place. The Duke was dead.
Sheathing his sword, he opened the chamber door.
¡°Edmur Eyser, is it possible for the dead not to converse with the living?¡± he asked the master of ceremonies who was having a quiet conversation with the men outside.
¡°Your Grace?¡±
¡°Can the dead refuse to return?¡±
¡°If the body is intact, or enough of it is, they return if only for a short while.¡±
¡°My father will not return.¡±
Edmur Eyser walked into the room, Nathye giving him way. He checked the body, quickly removing the rest of the shroud.
¡°The body is not maimed or damaged, Your Grace. The spirit should return for its only conversation if there is only one living in the room.¡±
The room was sparse enough, with no places to hide. There were no elaborate furniture under or inside which or a person could hide. Nathye quickly scanned the room, then turned back to the master of acolytes.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
¡°You said only conversation?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°Yes, Your Grace. I said the dead can only come back once. Your next conversation with them is when you have passed on as well. It happens if someone is with them, and the door is shut.¡±
¡°Your Grace,¡± said one of the men who was standing in the doorway, ¡°I¡the door was shut.¡±
¡°Why was it shut?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°When we could not open the door to your chamber, I wanted to make sure the duke¡¯s body was not disturbed, Your Grace. I did not see anyone inside, so I shut the door.¡±
¡°Is it possible for the dead to speak to one of those animals if they were inside when the door was shut?¡± asked Nathye.
Nathye could hear a few mutterings from behind, but was focused on the master of acolytes.
¡°No, Your Grace. They only speak to humans.¡±
¡°Where is that young man who helped set up the room?¡± asked Ser Dafeld, ¡°Wasn¡¯t he here preparing the body?¡±
No one had seen him leave.
¡°Search the building,¡± said Nathye. ¡°Ser Dafeld, I want someone guarding the exit. He is not to leave until I¡¯ve spoken to him.¡±
The men dispersed to search through the building. Ser Dafeld took Edmur Eyser to show them around.
Nathye took the shroud that had previously covered his father and dropped it on the floor. Leaning on the wall, he ran his boot on the shroud, scraping off the dallen blood and meat that had clung to it. He bent down and used the edge of the cloth to shine the top of the other boot, where splashes of blood had landed, then wiped down his pants.
It took the men twenty minutes to return. Nathye kept staring at his father who continued to ignore him and remain dead. They trickles back in, Ser Dafeld and Edmur Eyser in tow, none having found the man.
¡°Edmur Eyser, where would he have gone?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°If he is not here, he would have gone to his bed, though I cannot imagine him doing so without telling me, Your Grace.¡±
¡°You,¡± Nathye told one of the men, ¡°go with the master and check if the man¡ª what is his name?¡± that he addressed to Edmur Eyser.
¡°Roge, Your Grace.¡±
¡°¡ªif Roge is in his bed. Bring both of them back.¡±
The men nodded, taking Edmur Eyser with him.
¡°Run another check of the building,¡± said Ser Dafeld, directing the men.
It was another half hour before Edmur Eyser and the man dispatched to accompany him returned. Roge was not there. The rest of the men have also not found anything. Roge had done his own quick check of the chambers, tired of seeing his father¡¯s visage.
¡°Why would he have run?¡± Nathye asked Edmur Eyser.
¡°Run? Roge? There is no place for him to run, Your Grace. This is the only place he has known. He has lived here his entire life.¡±
Nathye drew his sword, holding it at Edmur Eyser¡¯s throat. ¡°Think carefully about your answer, master of acolytes. My father is not coming back to speak with me, so he has already spoken to someone. Your man was the only one who could have, and he is gone. Now, where could he have gone?¡±
Edmur Eyser, his face losing what color it had before, was wringing his hands. ¡°Your Grace, I don¡¯t know where he is or what he has done. We do not speak to the dead on behalf of the pilgrims coming here.¡±
The sword thrust was easy. Nathye had never done it in cold blood, but the man was lying. He had to know where his man had gone. These acolytes stole secrets from the dead and the living, and Nathye knew how to find out. He was now committed.
The sword entered Edmur Eyser¡¯s throat, slicing through his windpipe. Nathye held it there, watching the eyes of the man bulge as the sensation registered and his breathing was blocked by the blade. The master of acolytes¡¯ hands tried to go up to his throat, trying to find what was obstructing it, but the sword was in the way.
Ser Dafeld was the only one who understood what had happened. The others, if they noticed, might have thought Nathye had nicked the man. Ser Dafeld said ¡°Your Grace?¡±
Nathye moved the sword right and left, slashing the major veins in the neck, then pulled the sword out. Blood spurted out of Edmur Eyser, spraying Nathye. It covered Nathye¡¯s face, as well as the front of his tunic, and dripped down to his pants.
The master of acolytes looked at Nathye, hands still trying to stench the bleeding, then his eyes closed, and he slowly collapsed to the ground.
The men had gone quiet. They had not spoken before, but now even their breathing had stopped, so eerie was the silence. Someone coughed, but Nathye would not take his eyes off the man making his last convulsions on the floor in front of him.
¡°Everybody out!¡± he yelled.
¡°Your Grace, do you want help cleaning up?¡± asked Ser Dafeld.
¡°Out! I want to speak with the man again!¡±
The room cleared in seconds. Nathye sheathed his sword, then went to the door and slammed it.
This time, the reaction was instantaneous. Edmur Eyser¡¯s head righted itself, and he¡ it?¡ looked directly at Nathye.
¡°Did Roge speak to my father?¡± asked Nathye.
¡°I do not know, murderer.¡±
¡°Did anyone else?¡±
¡°I do not know, slayer.¡±
¡°Where is Roge?¡±
¡°I do not know, man-killer.¡±
¡°Are there places to hide in this building?¡±
¡°This is no place for the living. What did the harbinger of the dead tell you?¡±
Nathye took a step back. That¡thing that spoke to him in the other chamber. He did not want to think about it.
¡°H¡ How do you know?¡± he asked.
¡°Because our job is to keep life away from this building, yet a live dallen made it to that chamber, bloodshedder.¡±
¡°Stop calling me that! I did what I had to!¡±
¡°Does the cleaver force the man to become a butcher?¡±
Drawing his sword again, Nathye stabbed the corpse. It did not react.
¡°Is there another exit to this building?¡±
¡°The only other way out is the exit of the dead, through the chutes, slaughterer.¡±
Nathye slashed at the man¡¯s face with the sword. It did not flinch.
¡°Could Roge have exited that way?¡±
¡°The drop to the desert is hundreds of feet below, lawbreaker.¡±
¡°I set the law, you miserable excuse of a ghost. Your body will join the host of unmourned below!¡±
¡°Consider that your man was also alone with your father,¡± said the dead.
Slashing one last time at the body, Nathye backed away from the talking head, holding the sword up between them. He waited there, back to the door, until the head dropped to the floor, lifeless forever.
Chapter Seven: Roge
Hanging there, between two chutes, in the cold, barely holding on to the wall, bleeding and pained, the memories hit Roge Lifebane.
He was young, so young, toddling around among the dallens who were almost knee-high to him. A man, laughing, telling him to pet them, not scare them.
In another, he was older, running around the yard with a stick he had liberated from a broken crate, swishing it around as if he were Willas The Swift that the pilgrims had been telling tales about. He stumbled on a rock and fell down, skinning his knees. Crying, he limped to the same man who picked him up and carried him to his bed. The man cleaned his knee, telling him it would be ok. He lay his head on the man¡¯s shoulder, forgetting all about the great battles outside the monastery¡¯s walls.
Older still, and two rich merchant boys who had come with their father to the monastery had cornered him in the yard. They were making fun of him, goading him to something he didn¡¯t understand.
There had been only one other baby in the monastery the year before, another orphan, brought to become an acolyte, but it had died of the waxing sickness and was given to the dead. Roge did not know how to respond to the jibes of these boys.
¡°Don¡¯t you have shoes?¡± asked the older of the two.
Roge looked down, not understanding. What was wrong with running around barefoot? The soles of his feet were used to the ground at the monastery, and Edmur Eyser said he was growing too fast for shoes.
¡°No,¡± he said.
¡°Stupid acolytes,¡± said the younger of the boys. ¡°His hair looks like that beaver we saw, the one got run over.¡±
The other boy laughed.
Roge didn¡¯t know how to react to that. He¡¯d never seen a beaver in his life.
¡°Who cut your hair, boy?¡± the older one again.
¡°Edmur Eyser,¡± he answered, not sure what was expected here.
¡°Well he¡¯s stupid,¡± said the younger boy.
Roge pushed him.
The boys had managed their goal.Now that the first punch, under what rules they were using that counted this as a punch, had taken place, they both lay into him.
One kicked while the other punched, alternating as he tried ineffectively to protect himself. He had never been in a fight, never even seen a fight, for who would come to fight the dead? There was nowhere to run, his back to the wall, and so they pounded him, punching his face and his stomach, until he was on the floor, lying in a ball, and they both kicked at his exposed hands and head.
He didn¡¯t know how long this continued, retreating into himself, crying. At some point, they stopped and went away. It was night before the previous master of ceremonies found him, saying, ¡°Get up, boy.¡°
When Roge didn¡¯t, he, too, went away.
Soon, Edmur Eyser, then just an acolyte himself, came running. He carefully picked him up and carried him, cradled to his chest, to his own room. He cleaned him up and checked him over. Roge had two broken ribs and lacerations all over his hands and feet that would take weeks to heal fully. His face felt numb, and when he was later able to look at his reflection in a water bowl, a puffy black and blue visage stared back at him, scaring him so much that he fell backward on his ass.
Since that day, he was Edmur Eyser¡¯s shadow throughout the day whenever there were pilgrims in the monastery. He helped the man clean, helped him set the bodies properly, and helped send the dead to their final rest if the pilgrims did not take them along when they left.
He could not remain hanging like this for long. The men had not bothered closing the shutters and had left once they had dropped the bodies. He did not know what else the men would do or whether they would be back.
He said a quick goodbye to Edmur Eyser, a quick prayer for his passing.
Choosing the right-most chute that the men had not used, he pulled his knee up to the ledge, body straining. His habit, released from its captivity by the ledge once he had dropped down, was still bunched around his torso, leaving his bottom half exposed. His knee scraped along the wall, as did the foot that no longer had a sandal. He would feel the pain if he ever warmed up enough for blood to circulate throughout his body.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The angle was wrong. With one hand stretched to the other chute¡¯s round exit hole, he could not bring his knee high enough to find any purchase. He did not have the acrobat¡¯s agility required for such a maneuver, and he was already stiff from the cold.
Thinking about what else he could do, he said another prayer to the dead in case he would be meeting them soon. Then, careful not to swing wildly, he moved the right hand further along the chute, creating space for the other. Using his feet, he shifted his body towards the right hand, moving his center of gravity under it. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, then, in one swift motion, released the left hand, grasping the other chute, and moved it to join the right.
His body, now no longer stretched between two chutes, had more room to move. Since he¡¯d already shifted its mass, it did not swing over but did try to pull down. Not wanting to lose momentum, he instead pulled himself up towards the chute. Years of working in the monastery had toughened him. He had walked up and down the mountain, carrying produce and equipment that could not be grown or made there and that horses and carriages could not ferry due to the inaccessible path. He had also carried the dead, and it almost felt like they, far below him, now carried him back.
He pulled himself until his head reached the entrance to the chute. Then, as the wind continued its wailing for the dead, he hugged the chute with his chin and forced first one arm, then the other, into the chute. His fingers looked for anything he could hold onto inside its round shape. The floor, angled, was smooth with years of use. Moving his hands along the sides, he checked the rough stone, looking for anything he could grasp.
On the right, he found a protruding stone, large enough to hold with his hand. On the left, there were only small grooves. His numb fingers found purchase, though he could only tell that his arm was anchored when he tried to pull his wrist.
With both hands clutching what meager support he had, he lifted himself on his elbows, pulling himself up and into the chute. He thought he felt something snap in his left hand but could not afford to check. He brought his upper body in, lying on his stomach, breathing hard, no longer feeling the cold, the exertion, fear, and anger having chased it away. A fire was burning inside of him now.
Dangling between the living and the dead again, legs sticking out, now like something sinister trying to burrow in, he pulled himself fully into the chute. He would need to wait until the men had gone before entering the building. For now, he turned himself on his side, legs pulled up in the same position Edmund Eyser found him after the beating so many years ago, and exhaustion lulled him to sleep.
The men came again later, though he wasn¡¯t sure how long had passed. He could make out some of the wall, so daybreak was starting. The men were muttering to themselves quietly and threw another body down one of the chutes. They left soon after that.
He was shivering all over, the cold having numbed him to any pain. He inspected his hand, the one that had snapped last night when he climbed. It was throbbing, and he saw one of the had broken and was jutting at an odd angle.
He had done this with the animals in the past and with the dead when their visage needed to be fixed lest they upset their living interlocutors. He¡¯d never done it to a live person, and certainly not to himself. Grabbing the broken finger with his other hand, trusting the cold to numb the pain, he quickly snapped it back into place.
Immediate, intense pain almost made him lose consciousness. Despite the cold, it felt like someone ripped out his finger, the sharp, stabbing pain radiating from it through his hand and up his arm. Hit clenched his teeth, biting on his tongue in the process.
The pain subsided, but now his tongue, too, was hurt. Cursing quietly, he tried to sleep again despite the aches he felt all through his body.
He woke again, his feet baking in the hot desert Sun. Despite the suffering, his body had given in, and he slept for a few hours while day rose and warmth returned to the world with a vengeance. It was now baking his legs that stuck outside the chute.
He listened but didn¡¯t hear anything. Moving his legs, he found that he only had one sandal. The other foot held a dull ache, and both knees and his stomach ached from scraping against the stone wall of the monastery. His penis and balls were both skinned raw, and his finger was broken. His tongue had swollen while he slept, adding its pounding to his list of complaints.
The most urgent need, though, was his bladder. It had survived a night in the desert cold and was close to bursting. He rotated on his back, using his hands to anchor himself so he didn¡¯t slide down. He then opened his habit and pulled it up. Not bothering to aim, he let gravity angle his cock downwards and relaxed his control.
Piss came out, angling towards the desert below. With it came a sharp pain from his bruised and scraped cock. The pissing stopped, his body cutting off the flow by itself from the pain. He remained there, breathing quickly, controlling the pain, then tried again. Once more, the piss came out, bringing pain the pain with it. He knew to expect it now and controlled his body¡¯s reaction.
From this angle, he could see the stream angle above his torso before dropping below to water the dead. Its pinkish color glistened in the rays of the sun.
That done, he set to exiting the chute. Carefully pushing up the shutter, he glanced through but saw no one. He turned over and crawled out, falling onto the floor.
Standing up, he made his way around the building, leaving red footprints in his wake. He stopped every few steps to listen, but the building was quiet, nothing living making a sound. Passing the chamber where the duke¡¯s retinue had eaten he peered inside. Portions of smoked dallen were still on the table. He took some, eating one while stowing the rest in his pocket.
The next chamber, where before lay the old duke¡¯s, was now empty. It was red with blood but there were no bodies. He said a quick prayer, then moved on.
He went to the balcony that was used to clean the room. Someone had opened it enough for him to go through. He lay down and crawled to the ledg, looking out onto the monastery¡¯s courtyard.
Stephye Mortguard, the young boy who woke him, as well as the other acolytes of the monastery, were all in the courtyard, waiting for him as his heart was remade to match the color of his black wings.
Chapter Eight: Nathye
Nathye cleaned his sword on the dead acolyte¡¯s habit, then slid it back into the scabbard on his belt. Opening the door to the chamber, he found the castellan and the rest of his retinue waiting.
¡°There is a place where the acolytes throw the bodies to the desert. Do you know where it is?¡±
¡°I do, Your Grace,¡± said one of the guards. This was the same one who before had closed the door on the Duke and Roge.
¡°Take the two bodies and dispose of them.¡±
¡°Your Grace,¡± said Sir Dafeld, ¡°shouldn¡¯t we take your father home for proper burial? His place in the crypt is prepared.¡±
Is everyone against me? Can¡¯t they follow simple orders?
¡°My father will have his final rest, where he spoke his last.¡±
¡°But, Your Grace¡ª¡±
¡°Enough!¡±
Nathye stepped aside, using the sword that was in his hand again to point at his father¡¯s body, still lashed to the wall.
Ser Dafeld came in, signaling the guards to follow him. They took his father down, loading him onto a cart and rolling him away. Another pair carried the dead acolyte by the shoulders, legs leaving a blood trail as they looked for another cart to load him onto.
Nathye took his father¡¯s shroud that he had used before and wiped down his face and tunic as best he could using fast, abrasive swipes. He patted down his pants as well, but his clothes would have to wait until they returned to the horses, where a spare set was packed. He discarded the shroud, now red with dallen and acolyte blood, on the floor.
Now that Nathye had slowed down, he smelled the metallic blood and the sharp smell of shit from the bowels the acolyte had voided when he died. There was a closed balcony in the chamber. Nathye opened the door slightly, letting the night¡¯s air cleanse away the smell.
The acolyte had said that the guard might have spoken to the old duke, and the dead do not lie. Nathye wondered if it were possible. The guard had said he closed the door, but not whether he was in or out of the room when he¡¯d done so. Could the guard have spoken to his father? Could the guard have received the mysterious word from the old duke and be plotting the downfall of Nathye in order to take over? There was an easy way to find out.
When the retinue came back, Nathye looked for the guard.
¡°Come in,¡± he told called him.
¡°The bodies are gone as you requested, Your Grace,¡± the guard said, walking into the room.
The castellan followed, and Nathye, bristling, ignored this.
¡°Close the door, Ser Dafeld.¡±
Once the castellan did, Nathye turned on the guard.
¡°You said that you checked that the room was empty, then closed the door,¡± he said.
¡°Yes, Your Grace.¡±
¡°And you did not see Roge or anyone else in the room?¡±
¡°No, Your Grace, though I only gave a quick glance.¡±
¡°Were you inside the room when you closed the door?¡± Nathye said, advancing on the man.
The man, eyes growing wide, stepped backward, shoulders hitting the wall. ¡°No, Your Grace. I was outside.¡±
¡°So you say. Did you have a conversation with my dead father?¡±
The guard¡¯s eyes were now as big as saucers. ¡°No, Your Grace!¡±
¡°Swear it to me.¡±
The guard, face white as the bleached rocks of the desert, fell to his knees, looking at Nathye in supplication. ¡°I swear, Your Grace!¡±
Nathye could not trust his future to this.
¡°Ser Dafeld,¡± he said to the castellan, ¡°I need a minute of privacy with this loyal guard.¡±
¡°Your Grace?¡± said the castellan.
¡°Leave us!¡±
The castellan, eyeing them both, went to the door, exiting and closing it behind him.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
¡°Now,¡± said Nathye, ¡°I need you to swear on your sword. Show it to me.¡±
The guard fumbled with his belt, awkwardly pulling his sword from where it had stuck between himself and the wall in this kneeling position. He pulled it out of its scabbard and presented it to Nathye.
Taking it in both hands, Nathye looked at it and said, ¡°Yes. This one will do.¡±
Holding the sword by the grip, he pointed it at the surprised man¡¯s chest and pushed hard. He was taught that a man¡¯s rib cage was not easy to enter and that hitting a rib could block a killing blow. Forcing his weight behind the thrust, he leaned on the sword, making sure it penetrated and skewered the man¡¯s heart.
The man, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, looked at Nathye as if asking for permission to take the sword back. Nathye looked at him pointedly, waiting for the spark to disappear from his eyes. He saw the man¡¯s arms rise to the sword, saw the mouth try to form a word, but the heart had stopped pumping the needed lifeblood to the body. A few seconds later, the head slumped, then the weight of the collapsing body snatched the sword from Nathye¡¯s hand.
The body was unmoving for a second before it straightened again, sword still emerging from its chest as if it were saluting Nathye. It remained kneeling there, looking at Nathye.
¡°Was Roge in the room when you closed the door?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know, Your Grace,¡± came the response of the dead.
¡°Were you inside the room when you closed the door?¡±
¡°No, Your Grade.¡±
¡°Did you speak to my dead father?¡±
¡°No, Your Grace.¡±
One last thing then, ¡°Do you know where Roge is?¡±
¡°No, Your Grace.¡±
Nathye considered this one avenue closed. He would still need to find Roge.
He continued staring at the body of the dead guard, not having anything else to ask it. At some point, he decided to pull the sword out. Some blood spurted out, once more splashing his pants, but he was beyond caring. Seconds later, the guard slumped to the floor, dead again.
Opening the chamber¡¯s door, he looked at the waiting men outside.
¡°The man, Roge, must have left the building. Find everyone in the monastery and round them up in the courtyard by the gate.¡±
¡°Your Grace,¡± said Sir Dafeld, ¡°that sword in your hand, did the guard attack you?¡±
He had forgotten he was still holding it. Handing it to the castellan, he said, ¡°He had failed his duties. Dispose of the body.¡±
With that, Nathye stepped out of the room, the silent men making way as he strode out of the building and into the dawn that was starting to light up the sky. He stood there as his men emerged from the building and infested the rest of the monastery. The skies turned red, foretelling the arriving sun, complementing the blood that had soaked into him from head to toe.
Beyond the building of the rock, where the ceremonies were held, the monastery had a dormitory, a kitchen, and an attached mess hall. The rest were open structures for the livestock and supplies, with no place to hide. It did not take time for his men to collect all the acolytes, five in all.
There was a young man in his twenties, as well as four boys of varying ages. He wondered why no women served here, but the thought of bringing life so close to that abomination that spoke to him through the dallen filled him with revulsion, and he did not dwell on it. The acolytes, all woken from sleep and still in their nightclothes, stood in line, the younger child crying and grasping the hand of the man.
¡°What is it, my lord? Pilgrims don¡¯t often make it here so early. Did you bring a loved one you wished to talk to?¡± the young acolyte asked, looking around, though whether he was searching for a body or for his superior was unclear.
¡°I need to find Roge,¡± Nathye said. ¡°Do you know where he is?¡±
¡°Roge, my lord? I would imagine he is asleep in his room.¡±
Nathye moved forward and grabbed the crying child by his free hand. He dragged him away from the man and handed him to one of the guards.
¡°Please, my lord. He¡¯s just afraid,¡± the man said, trying to move after Nathye.
Another guard stepped forward, placing a sword between the men and Roge, keeping him back.
¡°He is not in his room. Where else can he hide in the monastery?¡± Nathye said.
¡°Hide? Why would he hide?¡± the man¡¯s eyes were darting between the men, hands rubbing his stomach in a repeated downward motion.
¡°Kill the boy,¡± Nathye told the guard.
¡°Your Grace?¡± the guard, surprised, looked at Nathye, then the castellan.
¡°I said, kill the boy.¡±
¡°Please, my lord, Your Grace! He¡¯s just a small child!¡± the acolyte cried.
The other kids were starting to cry.
The castellan looked at Nathye, eyes piercing, then nodded to the guard. ¡°We are committed. Do your job.¡±
The guard, visibly swallowing, lifted the crying boy and, cradling the boy¡¯s back to his chest, used his sword to slash the boy¡¯s throat. Blood sprayed on the monastery¡¯s ground as silence rained, the boy¡¯s cries ended.
The silence soon ended. The older of the remaining children fainted and fell, the sound of his head hitting the floor ending the silence. The two younger children began crying, moving towards the man who was now on his knees, crying, looking at the child who had stopped convulsing and was now limp in the guard¡¯s hands.
¡°Enough!¡± Nathye commanded. ¡°Where is Roge?¡±
The acolyte¡¯s whole body was wracked with sobs, the two other children huddled behind him. He looked at Nathye and tried to speak, but whatever sound his mouth tried to make was transformed into thin, high wails of sorrow.
Nathye stepped close and slapped him, hard, across his face. ¡°Where is Roge?¡±
The shock must have helped. The man gulped a few times, then stopped his crying and, looking back at the dead child being laid down in his own bed of blood, said, ¡°I do not know, Your Grace,¡± voice breaking again as a sob escaped.
¡°Are there hiding places in the monastery?¡±
¡°No hiding places, Your Grace.¡±
¡°Kill that one,¡±¡ªNathye motioned a guard to the boy that had fainted.
¡°Please!¡± the acolyte cried, trying to reach over to the boy but was barred by the guards.
The one Nathye had motioned to stepped over and quickly dispatched the unconscious older boy.
The boys huddled by the acolytes cried again, though Nathye paid them no mind.
¡°Think again. Is there anywhere to hide in the monastery?¡±
The man, on his knees, swerving from side to side and looking pale, looked at Nathye. ¡°The dead have no reason to hide. The only place he might be is up on the hill, in the central courtyard where the rock is.¡±
Nathye looked at the men, who confirmed they had searched it.
¡°In that case, he is no longer here. He flees before us, and we must go down the mountain and find him.¡± Looking at the castellan, he said, ¡°Kill the rest.¡±
Tired, he began walking towards the gate, hearing the cries of the boys cut short by the pacifying sounds of swords entering flesh.
Chapter Nine: Roge
There, on the balcony, Roge felt the lifeless stares of the dead acolytes bore into him from the courtyard below. He pushed himself to his feet, careful to lean on his right hand to avoid the pained, broken left. There was no reason to hide. The gate to the monastery was wide open, with no one else in sight, the only life left in the monastery were the dallens in their coups.
The Duke¡¯s retinue had started climbing down the mountain. They must not have reached their horses yet, or he would have seen the dust cloud covering their retreat as if their sins could be so simply hidden.
His heart could not contain any more sorrow. He turned around, stumbling on his scraped foot and one sandal, taking doddering steps back into the chamber.
Opening the cabinet where the acolytes kept material to clean the dead, he found some water and used it to cleanse his many wounds and lacerations. He used one of the shrouds to dub at the drying blood, then, using his one good hand and his teeth, he ripped strips from the shroud and bandaged his foot. His tongue ached every time he bit down, having swollen to encompass all of his mouth. Every hurt and ache reminded him that he was still alive, and an inner flame, all black, was burning inside, driving him.
Tying the bandage one-handed was no easy feat. He resorted to standing on one end while using his hand to weave the other end of the strip through. Foot now covered with a shredded shroud, he took slow steps out of the building. Shutting the building as his last way of fulfilling his namesake role, Roge Lifebane descended down into the courtyard.
The five dead bodies, his only family, lay in pools of blood in the courtyard. He bent down, caressing the boys¡¯ cheeks, closing their eyes, straightening their hair.
His tears were falling down constantly, though he was not aware of his crying until they splashed on Stephye Mortguard¡¯s face. At first, he thought one of the rare rains had come to the monastery to clear away this nightmare he was seeing. He looked up at the sky, but only the uncaring blue stared back at him as if this were a day like any other. Touching his finger to his face, he brought it up to his eyes and saw that it was wet. The body of Rancis Essenceblight, his best friend, was hardest of all to see.
He could not look at the bodies any longer. In their muteness, they demanded a response.
Leaving them there, he went to prepare.
He found a sandal that matched his missing one and put it on. He searched through the discarded items that pilgrims had left in the monastery over the years. Edmur Eyser had generously called these donations, and in truth, some were given freely and with good intentions. Some were just items the dead no longer needed, and the pilgrims had no use for, and some were just forgotten and never reclaimed. The climb up to the monastery was arduous, and doing so for an old tunic left behind was beyond most people¡¯s desires.
He found a pair of pants that fit and a couple of shirts he could wear. Discarding his habit, he put these on, unused to how they felt on his body. A rope belt completed the ensemble.
Taking one of the packs that he used to bring provisions up the mountain, he collected smoked dallen, a water skin, and the spare shirts into it. He took two large knives from the kitchen, the biggest ones he could find, tucking one in his belt and one in his pack. He took the one axe the monastery had and put that in the pack as well.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He went to his room. It was sparse, a bed and a few small items. By the bed was a small wooden dallen figurine. His cheek felt wet again as he remembered.
He was young, running around the courtyard of the monastery in the evening after his chores were complete, in that hour between heat and cold. The pilgrims had gone, and the older men were still in the central building, cleaning up.
There was a piece of wood on the floor. It was discarded by one of the pilgrims or had dropped from someone¡¯s pack. He picked it up, turning it over, looking at its misshapen form.
¡°Edmur Eyser, Edmur Eyser,¡± he called as the man finally returned to relax from the day¡¯s work, ¡°look what I found!¡±
¡°What treasure did you discover?¡± asked the man, smiling at him, taking the wood to look at it.
¡°It¡¯s a dallen.¡±
¡°It is, is it?¡±
¡°Yes!¡±
¡°Well, we should help wake it from sleep. It needs a friend.¡±
¡°You can wake it?¡± Roge was elated. He had not known that was possible, his flights of fancy not reaching such heights.
¡°We¡¯ll see. Leave it with me.¡±
After dinner, Edmur Eyser took out a small knife and started whittling at the wood. He did this for the next few evenings. On the fourth day, when Roge woke up, the dallen was there, sitting by his bed, waiting for him.
He took the wooden dallen and put it in his pack as well. There was nothing else he needed. Going out of the room, there was one other kindness he could do. He went and opened all the dallen coups, letting the small animals out. They would starve inside, but outside, they might survive or even find a way to live on the mountain. If not, a fox would eat them, which was preferable to whithering away.
He needed to leave. When the duke reached the men he must have left with the horses and discovered that Roge had not been down the mountain, he would come back up to look for him. He had to find a way past them. He could not even take the time to care for his family, have a last conversation with them.
Standing over their bodies, he said one last prayer for them. With that, he walked out the gate.
The path down was a familiar one. He¡¯d walked it up and down so many times that every rock, every turn, every sharp decline was etched into him. His steps were slow, his feet hurting, the left getting used to the new sandal and the abrasions he had sustained. The clothes were uncomfortable, chaffing, rubbing at skin and flesh that was already raw or missing from where he had left parts of himself on the monastery¡¯s wall.
The pants were a new experience. His habit had not restricted his movement in the least. He was not used to anything riding up between his legs and pressing on his private parts, parts that were already bleeding raw in addition to his knees and thighs, now encased in tight-fitting cloth. Every step jostled and hurt, and he had to focus on the movement as he stepped down the path, taking careful steps.
He was coming around a bend, having taken a painful step down, when he stopped to take a breath and let the pain subside for a moment. Looking down the trail, he thought he saw movement. Wondering if there were pilgrims coming up the mountains and what they would do once they saw the dead reception waiting for them, he curiously looked down.
Far below, about an hour¡¯s climb, he saw two small shapes making their slow way up. They weren¡¯t carrying a dead body with them, which was odd since before the duke came to the monastery, pilgrims had to bring their own. Traveling traders sometimes made it up to the monastery with goods to trade, pots and pans that the acolytes could not make themselves, but these two were not carrying any large bags with them nor carrying any tarp laden with goods between them.
They were far away, but he tried to make out who they might be. Were they some known visitors to the monastery? Would they be able to help him?
As they rounded a rock, one straightened and stretched, the motion reminding Roge of something. As the figure bent again to continue its climb up the mountain, the sun glinted off something it was wearing, and Roge knew.
Chapter Ten: Nathye
Nathye was thankful the path from the monastery was downhill. He had been up all day riding hard, then climbed up the mountain on foot carrying his father. He had to deal with that horrible creature, what the dead acolyte had called the harbinger of the dead, and had to make hard choices. Leadership choices.
He lifted his feet just high enough to take the next step. His hands were by his side, dangling where the body¡¯s motion took them. His mind wandered, lost in that delirium of exhaustion.
The men will see that he will be a great duke. He was a great duke. He will lead them to glory and renown. All he had to do now was find the one acolyte who got away, who had been like a thorn in his side, who had made him, forced him, to kill one of his own man. Well, the man will repay with his life, and the other acolytes had already bore some of that cost.
Lowering his foot down a deeper stone step on the path, he almost stumbled. The shock woke him up, eyes focusing, as he grabbed the nearby rock wall, body swinging to meet the rock face. One of the guards behind him grabbed him by the tunic, saving him from smacking face-first into the wall.
¡°Your Grace, are you alright?¡±
Straightening, now awake, he said, ¡°I am. Thank you.¡± He continued walking, watching where he was going more carefully.
He needed to find out what that cursed word was. His father would not have tried to tell him with his last dying sentence about that word if it were not important. How had his house got involved in such a thing? What kind of magic had his father had, and why had Nathye never seen him use it?
He kept trudging alone, stepping down the incline. His shoes dragged along some of the steps, and his knees hurt from the constant need to stop himself from rolling down.
Nathye cursed the path from the monastery for being downhill.
His head was down on his chin, eyes droopy with fatigue. His mind had drifted to imaginings of what he would do once he was a famous general, conqueror, leader of men. A shout of ¡°Ser Dafeld!¡± snapped him awake to find he was drifting off the path again just in time to catch himself from falling to his death. The other men were not doing much better, the line strung out before and after him, all exhausted from the long day and night.
¡°Ser Dafeld! Your Grace!¡± came the shout again.
The person was below him. Nathye looked over the ledge and saw the man they had left behind, the one who had twisted his ankle on the way up the mountain. He had been sitting on a rock by the path and was now standing, waving to them. Nathye had forgotten the man was there.
With renewed energy, Nathye made his way to the man as a few of the others collected around him. They must have been telling him what had happened above since they quieted when Nathye approached. Nathye had no time for them.
¡°You,¡± said Nathye, ¡°had anyone passed here since we left you?¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
¡°No, Your Grace. You¡¯re the first I¡¯ve seen. Your Grace, you are covered in blood. Should I prepare for enemies?¡±
Nathye bristled at the temerity of the man, ignoring the question.
¡°Have you been awake the entire time?¡±
¡°No, Your Grace. I slept a part of the night.¡±
So, Nathye could not be sure if the cursed acolyte had passed by or not. The duplicitous man could have slipped by, leaving the guard asleep and none the wiser about his passing.
Nathye looked at the men. They were tired, but he would need to send some of them back up.
¡°Could you climb up to the monastery?¡± he asked the man.
¡°If you so order it, Your Grace. It would be slow, but I would do it.¡±
¡°Very well. You¡±¡ªhe pointed at one of the other men¡ª¡°go back up with him. The two of you will search the monastery again. It is possible that acolyte, Roge, is still there. If he is, find him and bring him down to us.¡±
¡°Ah¡yes, Your Grace,¡± said the second man.
Good, they were learning to follow his directions.
The two began their climb back up, the one with the twisted ankle leaning on the other, tired man, for support. Nathye did not spare them more mind. They had swords and could take care of one acolyte if they encountered him.
Looking out at the vista before him, he could see far into the distance. The plains opened up, vegetation a welcome change from the barrenness of the mountain. He could see some pilgrims making their way towards the mountain. They were far away, on foot, probably a day¡¯s walk at least.
Pointing himself back down the mountain, he resumed his descent, the rest of his dwindling men following.
It was a few hours more before they reached the bottom of the trail. The horses neighed in greeting, recognizing their riders, though they shied away from the blood on Nathye. He would need to get a horse trained for battle, one that would suit his temperament better.
The guard greeted them, but he also had not seen anyone come down from the monastery. They were all exhausted at this point, and Nathye drank some water from the water skin on his horse, then lay down on the ground by a tree and closed his eyes. He heard Ser Dafeld start to organize a guard rotation, but after the first few words, blackness took him.
He woke a few hours later with a hand shaking him. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt like sand had coated it. His back now felt the stones of the ground that before he had not even registered. Opening his eyes, he saw Ser Dafeld crouched above him.
¡°Your Grace, we need to leave.¡±
The sun was still up in the sky, the sliver moon already visible above the horizon. It was late afternoon.
Sitting up, he cleared his eyes, forcing spit into his mouth to wet his tongue. Looking at Ser Dafeld¡¯s serious face he asked, ¡°Have we found him?¡±
¡°No, Your Grace. The men we sent up have not returned yet.¡±
¡°Then we cannot leave.¡±
¡°We saw pilgrims approaching from multiple directions when we were coming down the mountain, Your Grace. We cannot be here when they arrive. If they see us, they will know who had killed the acolytes. That will bring the fall of your house as sure as the other reason.¡±
Grimacing, Nathye stood up, brushing away the dirt and grass that had stuck to his clothes as he slept.
¡°You know why we cannot let this go,¡± Nathye said.
¡°We have men up there. They will find him. We can circle back and return once we have had time to clean up, approach as if we have just arrived.¡±
¡°And if he escapes?¡±
¡°He is a single acolyte. Even if he slips our men, the pilgrims will see him and tell us where he went. We will find him, Your Grace. We can then blame him for the murders. We will be righteous in hunting him.¡±
Nathye nodded at this. He hoped the man would be up in the monastery still, but if he escaped, that would not be a bad thing.
¡°Very well,¡± he said. ¡°We cannot leave any horses behind.¡±
¡°That will not be necessary,¡± said the castellan. ¡°We will be back soon enough.¡±
The retinue, now devoid of the dead duke¡¯s body, the dead guard, and two who were up in the mountain, mounted their horses and rode away.
Chapter Eleven: Roge
Roge Lifebane trudged back up the mountain. It was easier for him to count the parts that weren¡¯t hurting. His ears were not hurting, nor his right hand. He had not anticipated going back so soon, but the path was narrow, with no place to hide. He needed to survive, and now he would only need to deal with two of the guards at once.
He did not look forward to seeing his family again so soon, though he held no illusions about staying away from them for long. There were things he needed to do, but he might not survive long enough to finish those.
He had to get back to the top without being seen. At least the men were focused on the climb and less on looking up. They must be exhausted after the day and night they have had.
He had to figure out what to do when he got to the top. He might be able to hide from them, but there was no way to guarantee that. The duke might also send more men up. There as no other way down the mountain, though small animals did make trails through the mountain. Edmund Eyser had always cautioned him not to try those trails, and he did not trust himself to survive on the mountain for long. No pilgrims ever arrived from any of those trails, which was a good indication that they didn¡¯t lead anywhere.
He would have to trick the men to make sure he survived this encounter. He had an hour on them, though he was climbing slowly. Looking behind him, he tried to see where they had got to, but they were in an area of the trail he was not able to see. He could not tell how far behind him they were.
He arrived at the open, welcoming door of the monastery. He expected to see Stephaye Mortguard or one of the other kids running out of the gate to help him carry the packs like they did whenever one of the adults went down to bring provisions. The quiet that greeted him made him stop and remember.
He entered the ground, seeing a strange sight. His family was still arrayed in a perverted tableau in the courtyard, dried blood still their pillow. Dallens, now out of their coups, were milling around the courtyard. Some had come to stand by the bodies, some were running around sniffing the ground. They looked like a sea of tiny clouds that had descended and were moving in an inconstant breeze.
He moved into the courtyard, the plan shaping in his mind as if his family told him what they had been thinking while he was out on a stroll.
¡°I am sorry,¡± he told them, saying another quick prayer.
He then went to the body of his closest friend, Rancis Essenceblight, the older Acolyte. They were ten years apart in age, but there were no other kids in the monastery, and when Rancis arrived, Roge was fascinated. As Rancis grew from a toddler to a kid who could play and run and tell stories, the friendship solidified.
Taking the habit off Rancis, he dragged the body, one-handed, into the dormitories. He did not have time to take him up to the central building and send him on his way. Pushing him under one of the beds, he collected the small knives the acolytes used for everyday tasks and returned to the courtyard.
He carefully laid out all the bodies in a row on the ground, legs towards the central building, head towards the gate to the outside. He placed a knife in the hand of each of the bodies, closing their fingers as best he could around the hilt since the bodies had already been afflicted with the granite of death.
He donned the habit that he took from Rancis on top of his clothes, then went to the storage area by the coups and filled the pockets with dallen feed.
Joining his family in the warm sun, he laid down among them in the middle of the row, the dead children keeping him company. He waited to hear the sound of the two men coming up to the monastery. It was another half hour before the two guards approached, their slow steps audible through the gate.
Taking the dallen feed from his habit pockets, he spread it on the bodies of the dead and on himself, then, grasping his own large knife in his good hand, he hid the blade under his body and, supine, closed his eyes to wait.
¡°In the name of the gods, what are all the dallens doing here?¡± Roge heard one of the men say.
¡°I told you, we left the bodies here. I didn¡¯t think they ate bodies.¡±
¡°They don¡¯t. Away! Away with you.¡±
There was a sound of feet stomping, and someone walked aggressively towards Roge. The dallens ignored this, chittering at each other as they ate. They were trying to find any morsel they could. Their smell, all around Roge, along with their tiny feet climbing over him, made him feel like he was a babe again.Stolen story; please report.
¡°Help me move them,¡± said the first man.
¡°Why?¡± asked the second. ¡°I don¡¯t want to look at the dead children again.¡±
¡°Children?¡±
¡°Children. It was bad.¡±
¡°We need to check that he¡¯s not here.¡±
¡°I¡¯m so tired.¡±
¡°Fine.I can walk by myself here. This is flat ground. Go sit by the wall and rest for a bit,¡± said the first man.
Roge didn¡¯t care much why one of them was tired and the other wasn¡¯t. The fact that they were separating was going to help him. He stayed still, waiting.
By the sounds, Roge guessed that one of the men walked to the wall by the gate. The other came to where the dallens were congregating. The man was still stomping and had resorted to kicking them with his feet based on the thump and small shrieks they were making.
Roge heard the man get within a few feet. He was inspecting one of the children.
¡°Ryala protect me, her shield never failing,¡± Roge heard the man say. Then, more loudly, ¡°Why did you put knives in their hands?¡±
¡°What? Let me sleep.¡±
¡°Dammit. Why did you put knives in the dead children¡¯s hands.¡±
¡°We¡°¡ªthe second man yawned loudly¡ª¡±didn¡¯t.¡±
¡°Well at least this one has one.¡±
¡°Take it,¡± said the second man.
¡°I am not touching it.¡±
¡°Check the¡°¡ªanother yawn¡ª¡±others.¡±
The man moved closer to Roge, the dallens chittering as he disturbed their eating. Roge¡¯s eyes were closed, but from what he was feeling on his body, the man must have had to push the dallens off the other child¡¯s body to be able to see it.
¡°Great Ryala.¡± Then, ¡°This one also.¡±
¡°Also what?¡±
¡°Also has a knife.¡±
¡°Well, are they sticking you with them? This place is strange. The dead come alive and talk. Maybe they also get a knife from the kitchen.¡±
Roge was next in line. The man cleared the dallens that were climbing over his body and checked. He didn¡¯t touch Roge, which made it difficult to find the knife as Roge had tucked it underneath his body.
Roge opened his eyes. The man was crouched next to him, using his arm to push the dallens away. He hadn¡¯t noticed Roge was awake and alive, with all the aggrieved noises of the animals jostling around to get at their food.
Roge brought the knife out and thrust it at the man¡¯s neck. The knife went in, closing the man¡¯s ability to yell for help.
The man pulled out his sword and struck at Roge, cutting through the upper arm and scraping the bone in a horrible sound.
The pain hasn¡¯t hit Roge yet, but then what was one more body part to add to the litany of a broken man? Roge had finally dealt one blow against those who had taken his family away from him. He would send this man to where his family was so that he could make his excuses in spirit if not in person.
The man pulled back from Roge in order to gain better leverage, but that pulled Roge¡¯s own knife out of his neck. The floodgates opened, blood spraying out onto the ground, the dallens, and Roge. It also pooled into the man¡¯s lungs. With a quiet cough, he collapsed on the floor, convulsing, the noise of the sword hitting the ground eased by the dallens that cushioned it on the way.
The dallens, now aware something was wrong but used to the scent of blood from countless dead that had passed through the monastery over the years, chittered indignantly, then gravitated to areas where the food was not soaked red.
¡°Are you playing with the dallens?¡± the second man from the wall.
Roge risked a quick glance and saw that the man¡¯s eyes were closed. He grunted noncomittally, then got up and grabbed the sword the dead man had dropped. His arm was bleeding from the cut, but he needed to deal with this one first.
Walking with slow, measured steps towards the wall, letting the dallens mask the noise, he approached the resting guard. He aimed the sword at the man¡¯s throat, holding it as steady as he could, then said, ¡°Where are the rest of your friends?¡±
The guard¡¯s eyes snapped open. He saw Roge, saw the sword, and promptly fainted.
Roge had no time for this. Thrusting the sword into the man¡¯s gut once, twice, three times, he then bent to take away the guard¡¯s own sword. Walking away, He left the bleeding guard, who was waking up from the pain to make his own way into death.
Roge could not stay here. The rest of the party might come back up to look for him. He took off the habit he was wearing and saw that it was soaked in the blood of the first guard. That explained why the second guard had fainted. Roge¡¯s face was probably as red. Finding a clean area on the robe, he wiped his face as best he could.
Ripping a tourniquet from one of the guard¡¯s shirts, he tied it around this wounded arm. A finger in his left hand broken, right arm slashed, this was a harder task than he imagined. He was still bleeding, and if he could not stop it, he would die. The sword made it easier to cut the strips he needed.
Setting the bodies to welcome those who would come to seek him, he again said goodbye to his family and started the long walk down the mountain.
A few long and painful hours later, he was finally nearing the bottom. He had not seen anyone else on the way up, though occasional glimpses at the horizon showed a dust cloud riding away from the mountain. In other directions, he saw dots of what must have been pilgrims making their way toward the monastery to talk to their dead one last time.
The low sun in the west shone on the mountain in all its golden glory, the few trees and many stone outcroppings casting their light and dark marks across the trail. He was so tired, the exertion of the last day and the lack of blood making him light-headed.
He looked down at the flat expanse opening before him as he took the bend, not seeing a stone that was hidden in shadow. His leg, already tired and bruised from the night before, gave way. He fell down, missed the ledge, and toppled over the side.
Darkness took him.
Chapter Twelve: Nathye
It was noon by the time Nathye and his remaining retinue trotted to the trailhead. They had found an inn a few hours¡¯ ride away, made camp, and cleaned up. While the men had slept with the horses, Ser Dafeld and Nathye each had a room. They were all well rested and well fed, horses and men alike.
Nathye had caught eyes darting to him. He knew losing their friend the day before was a blow, but they would come to understand that sacrifices were important and would value his leadership. For now, he tried to convey the calm that Ser Dafeld always projected. He had been right to question the acolyte and the guard. Leaders make hard choices.
As they approached, he saw a few people at the base of the trail. They were talking to someone who was sitting by a tree, eyes red as if he¡¯d been crying. The man was dressed as a pilgrim. Another was coming from around the tree with a waterskin when Nathye¡¯s column rode up. The others stopped their conversation at that, looking at Nathye.
The two soldiers Nathye had left behind were not present. Nathye wondered where they had wandered off to since he had their horses.
¡°Good day, my lord,¡± said one of the people who was standing, an older woman wearing a faded old dress and a shawl.
¡°Good day,¡± said Nathye.
¡°Are you planning on going up to the monastery, my lord?¡± she continued.
¡°Oh, Ryala preserve us, my lord, I would not climb up there,¡± said the sitting man. ¡°The dead have begun protecting their own.¡±
¡°The dead do not attack,¡± said the woman.
Nathye dismounted, leaving his horse to one of the guards.
¡°Tell me what has happened,¡± said Nathye.
¡°My Lord¡ª¡±
¡°I am the Duke of Bewic,¡± Nathye interrupted. ¡°Call me Your Grace.¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace,¡± the man said, rising to his feet.
The woman gave an awkward bob of her head. The people standing followed suit.
¡°Tell me,¡± Nathye instructed the man.
¡°My L¡ªYour Grace, I gone climbed up to the monastery early in the morning. Me and Narder¡±¡ªhe pointed at the man who was bringing the waterskin¡ª¡°carried my mother up there. I wanted to¡±¡ªa sigh escaped him¡ª¡°get a last talking-to from her if you know my meaning¡ª¡±
¡°Get on with it,¡± said Nathye.
¡°Yes, My L¡ªYour Grace. Anyway, when we got there, the gate was wide open. I never been up there, but Narder¡±¡ªagain he pointed at the man who ducked his head¡ª¡°said ¡¯tis typical of them, but there should be someone welcoming us. We called but no one except a couple of dallens came out to greet us.¡±
Nathye felt a shiver at the mention of that dreadful animal. He didn¡¯t think he could ever eat another dallen if his life depended on it.
¡°Dallens?¡± asked Ser Dafeld, who had come up to listen.
¡°Yes, Your Grace,¡± the man said to Ser Dafeld.
¡°He¡¯s not the Duke,¡± said Nathye.
¡°Begging your pardon, Your Grace?¡±
¡°Oh, just call the other My Lord,¡± said the woman, rolling her eyes at him.
¡°Oh. Yes, My Lord Your Grace.¡± No one dared correct the list of honorifics, probably fearing they¡¯d grow like weeds. ¡°So the dallens came out and sniffed us, but we called and called, and no one else did. So Narder¡±¡ªagain the affirmation of who Narder was, as if anyone had forgotten¡ª¡°and me, we carried my mother into the monastery and dropped her, my poor, dead mother.¡±
He paused there as if waiting for the crowd¡¯s raptured demand for an encore or for someone to buy him a beer as if he were at the local pub.
¡°Tell His Grace what you saw, you dolt!¡± the woman, again.
¡°His Grace? I thought It was Your Grace, My Lord.¡±
¡°Just tell us what you saw!¡± Nathye¡¯s hand was on his sword, his mind conjuring ways to get this man to hurry up.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
¡°Well, His Grace, there were dallens everywhere milling about, and in the center of the courtyard, a big courtyard with some buildings, were the bodies. Little children with knives in their hands, just lying there all peaceful and bloody.¡±
¡°Knives?¡±
¡°Yes, His Grace, they had knives. And there was an empty robe in the middle between the children, and it had a sword.¡±
¡°The robe had a sword?¡±
¡°Yes, His Grace, as Zelat is my witness, it held a sword in its hand.¡±
Nathye looked to the thrice-named Narder, who solemnly nodded his head, then back to the speaker.
¡°And in front of them, His Grace, in front of them¡±¡ªhe was riling himself up now, getting into the swing of things, hands waving in the air, sadness about his dead mother forgotten¡ª¡°were two people bowing in supplication, both dead.¡±
The sun was shining, the day warm, but Nathye¡¯s whole body went cold. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin prickle. A wave passed over his body, head to toe, washing him to alertness.
¡°How do you know they were dead?¡± asked Ser Dafeld.
¡°We tried to move them, His Lord. ¡° The man had applied the lessons he had learned from the crowd, conjugating the title as a child would in school. ¡°They just toppled over, both bloody,¡± the man said. ¡°After that, Narder and I just ran down, leaving my poor mom with the other dead. Now, who will she give that last admonition to? She will haunt me, and when I pass on, she will forever remind me I had not come to talk to her when I was yet alive.¡±
Nathye turned away, Ser Dafeld in his wake.
¡°We need to get up there, see with our own eyes,¡± said Ser Dafeld.
Once more, they began the climb, leaving a man behind with the horses.
Rested, the daylight climb was simpler. Nathye was fueled by anger and resentment. Had the dead taken revenge on his guards? Had Roge? He led the way, Ser Dafeld dogging his steps, the rest of the men not far behind. Towards the top of the trail, they began encountering dallens chittering to themselves along the trail, sniffing around the rocks and pawing at the barren ground.
They arrived at the gates of the monastery to find them open, as the chatty idiot below had described. Walking inside the monastery, they beheld the clumps of dallens in every corner of the courtyard. At the center, exposed to the sun, with dallens running around and sometimes on top of them, were the welcomers.
The four children, each with a knife in his hand, were all arrayed with their heads towards the building at the top of the hill, legs toward the gates. The empty robe, lying between them, was set up the same way. Dallens were running over it, but they could easily see the blood covering it and the sword in its hand.
The two bodies before the group were on their side, one covered in blood from the throat down, the other with a bloody stomach.
Nathye felt the content of his stomach rise and, unable to stop himself, bent over and threw up. He heard a few of the men do the same. This was not natural. Their friends, his people, were brutally murdered. Were ghosts responsible for this?
Ser Dafeld was by him in an instant. ¡°Your Grace, are you alright?¡±
Nate straightened up, taking a waterskin from one of the men and drinking to clean the taste from his mouth.
¡°Did the dead do this?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know, Your Grace. We are missing one of the acolytes.¡±
¡°Roge. I know,¡± Nathye¡¯s mind was anxiously trying to reverse time to a glass of wine he had served his father.
¡°No. The one who was with the children.¡± Sar Dafeld turned to the men, ¡°Search the dormitories, the kitchens, and every other area. Come back here when you are done.¡±
¡°We need to question these men,¡± said Nathye. ¡°Help me carry them.¡±
Together, they grabbed one by the shoulders and started carrying him towards the building at the top of the hill.
The men found a dead body in their search, the young acolyte. Roge was nowhere to be found. They helped carry the two men to the top of the hill and into the central building.
¡°Let me speak to them, Your Grace. It is my responsibility as their commander.¡±
¡°Very well,¡± Nathye was tired, and had no desire to speak to any more dead.
Ser Dafeld took first one, then the other, into a room and closed the door. Both conversations were short. When he returned, his face was white, eyes compressed in thought.
¡°Well?¡± asked Nathye.
¡°I don¡¯t know, Your Grace. One was killed by a dead man who was with the children. They all had knives. When he checked to see if Roge was there, the man woke and stabbed him.¡±
¡°It could have been Roge.¡±
¡°Maybe. The second saw an apparition drenched in blood standing over him. He doesn¡¯t remember anything except pain after that.¡±
¡°So, he probably escaped. We need to find him.¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace. I suggest we dispose of all the bodies, Your Grace. People know we were up here. We shouldn¡¯t leave things like this.¡±
Nathye now cursed telling the pilgrims below who he was, but there was no helping it. ¡°Do it. Throw them over the side.¡±
They descended back in silence. The only positive thing Nathye could say about this expedition so far was that they hadn¡¯t lost any horses.
The pilgrims, curious, were all waiting below, along with a few more who had since arrived.
¡°Your Grace, Your Grace, what have you found?¡± the loquacious man approached, having been studiously tutored on formal etiquette while Nathye was gone.
¡°Neither the dead nor the gods have done this. It was done by the sword. There is a murderer or murderers loose. We have disposed of the bodies, though there are no acolytes left to cater to pilgrims.¡±
The mix of disappointed expressions warred with those curious about the news from the top.
¡°Has anyone else come or gone from the mountain since you arrived?¡± Nathye asked the crowd.
They all shook their heads, mutterings of ¡°No, My Lord¡± and ¡°None¡± coming from them.
¡°What of my mom, Your Grace?¡± the newly minted courtier spoke.
¡°She is still deceased. My men are bringing her down with them so that you may bury her with dignity. Now, we need to conduct a search.¡±
With that, Nathye went to the horses, leaving them staring after him.
¡°A search is a good idea, Your Grace,¡± said Ser Dafeld. ¡°I recommend sending two men in each direction from here, a day¡¯s ride at most. He did not have a horse and won¡¯t get far.¡±
¡°Do it,¡± said Nathye, weariness washing over him once more. ¡°We will ride back home and see what doom awaits us without that accursed word.¡±
Chapter Thirteen: Roge
The sound of a door opening woke Roge. There were noises of horses and dallens and other animals, but his mind had filtered all of these to the background. Now that he was awake, he could smell bread and the aroma of rich stew.
The unfamiliar bed grated. He tried moving, and sharp pain coursed through his whole body, causing it to go limp in shock. His eyes opened to see someone standing above him.
¡°You¡¯re awake. Good. Father wasn¡¯t sure you would ever¡±¡ªa young woman stood over him, holding a plate in her hand.
His aborted movement had shifted the blanket that was covering him, sending his own rank smell at him, and he winced.
The woman¡¯s hair was dark blond, eyes blue. She smiled at him beatifically. Roge closed his eyes, surrendering to the dark again.
When he woke next, he was alone in the room. He again tried moving before opening his eyes, and again, pain assaulted him from every part of his body. That, more than anything, told him he most likely wasn¡¯t dead yet. The dead, from what Edmur Eyser told him, did not complain of the maladies of the living.
He moved his head in measured steps, checking what freedom he had before pain returned. He could see a table near the bed with a plate on it. He couldn¡¯t move his hands, so it was as useful as a second conversation with the dead.
He noticed the lingering smell of stew in the air, now cold. His stomach grumbled. He also felt an intense pressure on his bladder.
He tried to sit up. His whole back seized, and he fell back to the bed, panting. Breathing hurt as well, his chest sending spikes of pain whenever he expanded it too much.
His bladder would not take much more. Exhaling, he let go, relieving himself, feeling the warmth spread between his legs.
When he woke again, it was dark. He still could not move without pain but no longer felt wet, and the sharp stench of urine did not permeate the air.
It was quieter outside. Insects made their occasional chirping, and an animal moved once in a while, but he sensed no other activity. He tried clearing his throat to speak, and a cough wracked him, causing waves of pain to shoot throughout his body.
The door opened, and an older man looked in. The man waited for the coughing to subside, then said, ¡°Enell will bring you some water.¡± With that, he was gone.
Enell came in carrying a cup of water and a plate, setting both on the table and sat on the side of the bed. Light filtered in through the open door, highlighting her blond hair, now flowing down freely around her face.
¡°Do you want water?¡± she asked. ¡°No, don¡¯t speak. I¡¯ll bring it to your mouth.¡±
Taking the cup, she tilted it above his lips, wetting his mouth.
He noticed how dry his mouth was now that the pain wasn¡¯t taking up all his attention. Most of the water ran down his cheek and neck, but he managed to swallow some, the cool sensation breathing life into his body. Some trickled down the wrong pipe, causing him to once more cough and count every painful nerve.
¡°That won¡¯t do,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re crying out more than you¡¯re taking in. I¡¯ll have to feed you like the young¡¯uns.¡±
Taking a spoon, she helped him drink the water sip by sip.
¡°I found a bird once when I was a girl. It fell from the tree and was just lying there going peep, peep,¡± she said, giving him another spoonful. ¡°It was lucky I got there before some fox or snake came by. I had to feed it water the same, drop by drop.¡±
He could not take his eyes off her.
¡°Do you want to try some stew? It¡¯s cold but good.¡±
He nodded.
Switching to the plate, she loaded a small amount on the spoon and brought it to his mouth.
He was ravenous, his mouth watering painfully, like during days when he worked late and hadn¡¯t had anything to eat for hours. The stew was only slightly thicker than water but had small pieces of meat and vegetables mixed in. He moved those around his mouth, swallowing without chewing after he¡¯d sucked the flavor out.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
She smiled at that, feeding him more of the stew.
¡°I like the chicken stew the best, though dallen stew is not bad either,¡± she said.
He kept eating, and she kept talking about everyday inane things. The plate was empty too soon.
¡°Can you tell me your name?¡± she asked.
He tried speaking, but no sound came out. When he tried forcing air through it, the coughing took him again.
¡°Sleep,¡± she said and left the room, closing the door.
A loud animal call woke Roge up. It was early morning, and he tried to understand what was making the racket. Where was he?
The light was dim, but he could see this wasn¡¯t his room, not his bed. There was a table next to the bed, and his wooden dallen was sitting on it. The memories hit him, and he started crying.
He remembered the duke¡¯s party coming in the middle of the night, the hurried preparation, the frantic hiding and climbing out of the monastery. Even as a child, he¡¯d never been this adventurous nor this scared. He remembered Edmur Eyser¡¯s dead body passing by him, remembered his dead family in the courtyard.
The memory of killing the two guards hit him like a physical punch. He had never killed before. He had butchered dallens when the acolytes needed to make meals or to smoke the animals to prepare special feasts for pilgrims. He had once had to kill a fox that had repeatedly tried getting into the coops.
He had protected the monastery so that living animals didn¡¯t make it into the areas of the dead. But, despite having dealt with death his entire life, despite handling the dead, cleaning them, and sending them on their way, he had never killed another human being.
The animal outside cried again, a joyous cry, a challenge to the world. What was it? Where was he? He remembered walking down from the monastery, steeped in blood and sorrow, remembered the lengthening shadows as the sun set on that day when his life came to an end. He remembered falling, yet this was not death.
The animal cried a third time. Sounds were coming from the other side of the door, people moving. They didn¡¯t seem in a hurry or panicked, so Roge wasn¡¯t in danger. He wasn¡¯t in danger from the animal.
He had murdered. He was forced to murder. The old duke, the dead duke, had been very explicit. ¡°Your life must change. The world will see war like no other unless you do as I say. You are Roge Lifebane of the monastery no more.¡±
The dead do not lie, yet the dead do not tell all. The duke did not tell him his son would kill Edmur Eyser. The ghost did not tell him its murderous son would end Roge¡¯s entire world.
The door opened, interrupting Roge¡¯s dark recollections. The man came in, looking at him. Seeing Roge awake, he grunted.
The man was in his fifties, with graying hair and sunkissed skin. He had the muscular build of someone who had worked all his life. His simple, stained work clothes had him ready to start his day.
¡°Still alive, eh?¡± he said. ¡°Enell will help you later. I need to go out to the field. You have a name?¡±
Roge considered. The old duke said he was no longer Roge. He didn¡¯t know what that meant. His eye fell on the wooden dallen near the table.
¡°D¡ª¡± he coughed, the pain there but not debilitating. ¡°Dalle.¡±
¡°Dalle,¡± the man nodded, turning around but leaving the door open.
Roge still did not know who the man was.
¡°So, little birdie,¡± said Enell, walking into the room with a plate and a cup, ¡°I heard you learned to speak.¡±
Other than dealing with the dead or family members of the dead, Roge had never had any long interactions with women. The acolytes in the monastery were all men. Edmur Eyser had once told him it used to be different, that men and women both worked at the monastery. There were even rumors, whispered among the children of pilgrims and dissuaded by the older acolytes, that the prophet was a woman.
The reason, Edmur Eyser explained, that women no longer served at the monastery was that women had children. Men, Roge understood, had children, too, but women grew them in their bellies.
Children died, sometimes in childbirth or earlier, before there was a person in the body. The mothers or the fathers would still sometimes try to bring them back, to hug them one last time, talk to them, tell them they were loved. The things that came through those bodies, Edmur Eyser said, were not the spirits of the babies but rather harbingers of the dead. These were not to be trifled with. That was why no women served as acolytes at the monastery.
Roge did not know how he was supposed to respond to her.
¡°I¡ª¡± coughing, painful.
¡°Yes, my father told me. You are Dalle. Dalle? What kind of name is that?¡±
She sat down, putting the plate and cup on the table. ¡°I thought your small friend would help keep you company. We tried to find out who you are. I¡¯m sorry for looking through your things, but Father said we would do so anyway if you died.¡±
She picked up the cup. ¡°Do you want me to raise your head so you could try drinking?¡± he nodded, and she did so, using one hand to prop his head up while the other held the cup to his lips.
¡°We found you by the mountain of the monastery. Did someone die?¡±
He was just swallowing a swig of water, and the question caught him by surprise. He coughed water spraying out, hitting him and her both. The pain hit him again, muting the memories some.
¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said, waiting for his coughing to subside.
¡°Yes,¡± he finally said, not elaborating.
She nodded sagely. ¡°My mother died when I was little. We buried her in the yard.¡±
Roge did not know what to make of her. She fed him breakfast and helped him clean up. He had broken multiple bones and had trouble moving, though one arm had just the one finger broken, and he could use it after a fashion.
She had no problem helping him clean up after himself. ¡°I work with the animals on the farm,¡± she said, shrugging.
She didn¡¯t press him for details. His pain was evident, so she talked about the farm and her life with her father. He did learn that the animal that woke him with its heart-stopping cries was Ser Jossa since it used to be small and yellow and like that famous boy in the story, but that it was now big and colorful. He still didn¡¯t know what manner of beast it was, or the name of her father.
Chapter Fourteen: Nathye
The weeks back at Bewic had been hectic for Nathye. Messages had to go out to outpace the rumors that were bound to be spreading already, telling his fellow dukes, as well as his own barons, of his father¡¯s death and his ascension. It rankled him that he only had barons owing him liege, no higher-ranking nobles.
There was no body to bury and, therefore, no funeral to organize. Sir Ancis fussed, but a body could not be manufactured, and a somber remembrance ceremony was held instead.
The searching guards trickled in over the next few days.
¡°How can they have found no sign of him?¡± asked Nathye.
¡°I don¡¯t know where he had gone to, my lord. He might as well have killed himself or hid in some cave on the mountain. We may never find him,¡± said Ser Dafeld.
¡°He left us a message on that mountain. That was not the act of someone who disappeared. He¡¯ll come to us,¡± Nathye said, certain.
Ser Dafeld glanced at him from under his heavy eyebrows but said nothing.
The preparations continued for the ascension ceremony. A few other dukes sent polite messages, though only two sent representatives, minor functionaries, to attend. One sent a young son, the disrespectful old fool.
Nathye invited his barons, a few rich burghers, and even, much as it pained him, a couple of his father¡¯s friends of no consequence. Ser Ancis insisted it would help portray him as a kind ruler, one who carried on his father¡¯s legacy. Nathye had no plan of carrying on a legacy of wasting away in Bewic but liked the idea of showing the world that he was now the duke and that he mattered.
On the day of his ascension, Ser Ancis came to him early in the early morning hours.
¡°What is it, Ser Ancis? Are we being invaded?¡± asked Nathye, reluctantly coming out of a dream where the world bowed before his magnificence.
¡°Your Grace, we need to go down to the crypt.¡±
¡°Why? My father isn¡¯t there.¡±
¡°We need to visit the pillar. It¡¯s been done like that since your family came to power.¡±
That gods-cursed pillar had ruined his dream, just like it almost ruined his life the day after his father died. Ser Ancis was not given to flights of fancy or to deviation from protocol, so Nathye reluctantly dressed, putting on a coat for the cold that permeated that benighted place, and together they descended.
Once more, they made their way through, Nathye now paying closer attention. He was carrying his own torch, and the servants had been hard at work cleaning the place. His grandfather¡¯s tomb was a grand affair, covered in depictions of the young man¡¯s expeditions to the Suenu plains. Further back were other tombs showing famous battles from before and after the fall of the empire. The family was old, serving emperors when there were still emperors to serve. The only tomb that was undecorated, a plain sarcophagus, was the one of Duke Ephel. There was no epithet, but ¡°The Incompetent¡± could be read from the lack of any adornments.
This would not be how Nathye¡¯s life ended. He had a destiny. He would be known far and wide. Nathye the magnificent. Nathye the Conqueror. Nathye the Triumphant. Maybe even Emperor Nathye. It was time the empire was pulled back together.
Ser Ancis stopped in front of the pillar, Nathye coming to stand by him. The light of the torch moved in some unseen draft, making the shadows dance around the room. This area of the crypt was a natural cave, stalactites hanging down from the ceiling, forever reaching for but not attaining their stalagmite halves on the floor.The pillar had a wide open space around it as if neither ceiling nor floor protrusion wanted to intrude into its space.
The pillar was about chest high, undecorated, except for the stick figure of a man cut into it about midway. The figure was a simple construction of two legs, two arms, and a round head. It wasn¡¯t holding anything or doing anything. If Nathye didn¡¯t know any better, he would have guessed a child found the pillar and carved a picture into it with the untalented but enthusiastic fervor of the young. Somehow, the figure conveyed the weight of years in the way it held its head and body.
¡°Do you know the word, Your Grace?¡± asked Ser Ancis.
¡°You know I do not!¡± Nathye looked at his seneschal, narrowing his gaze.
¡°I must ask, Your Grace. It is part of my duty to prepare you for the ascension. Will you try to wrest control of the pillar?¡± The seneschal had taken a few candles and placed them on some of the stalagmites around the pillar.
¡°I don¡¯t even know what it does,¡± Nathye clenched his fists. ¡°How would I wrest control of it?¡± his voice was rising, echoing in the cavern.
¡°I don¡¯t know, Your Grace. These candles might help give you clarity¡±¡ªHe¡¯d used the torch to light the four candles he had placed¡ª¡°but I do not know much about this pillar.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Nathye had not found much in his father¡¯s writing about the pillar. One of the older journals just said that his own father took him to the pillar, and another said that he used the word to reach an accord with it. He didn¡¯t say what the word was, did not say what power he had received from the pillar.
¡°I will try,¡± Nathye said.
Ser Ancis retreated, taking both torches with him. Nathye remained alone with the pillar and four small candles casting their meager light at the cage of stone formations that enclosed him in the dark. A shiver ran down his body, and he approached the pillar, getting closer to the stick figure. He reached out a hand to it, caressing it.
¡°Please,¡± he said, ¡°I don¡¯t know what the word is, but I want to make a name for myself, for my family.¡±
The pillar remained mute, the figure on it uncaring.
¡°Submit to me!¡± he tried, wondering if commanding it would have an effect.
The candles flickered, then one of them went out. He was down to three. Was it a draft, or was the pillar rejecting him?
¡°You will not control me!¡± he yelled, kicking the pillar.
Pain exploded in his toe, the slippers he was wearing not great protection from a solid stone. He jumped on one foot, grabbing at the foot that hit the stone and pressing down on the throbbing area. The pillar remained solidly standing, not budging a whit. The remaining candles did not flicker.
¡°Stupid pillar, stupid word, stupid carved figure,¡± he said.
Turning around, he yelled into the dark, ¡°Ancis!¡±
The light of the torches preceded the man as he approached from the dark, creating a small haven in which they both silently walked back out of the crypt.
Nathye sat on his father¡¯s chair, his chair now, in front of the gathered guests. Most of them were local to Bewic, though Nathye saw the son of Duke Drewill. That insult of a child had his finger so far up his nose, you¡¯d think the lost crown of the emperor might have been hidden there.
Ser Ancis and Ser Dafeld approached. They were both wearing their best garb, Ser Dafeld¡¯s hair slicked back with oil, Ser Ancis¡¯s bold pate shining in the torches lining the hall. Ser Ancis was carrying a small, blue velvet pillow on which rested his father¡¯s coronet.
They stopped before him, and Ser Ancis said, ¡°Please kneel, Your Grace.¡±
That did not sit well with him, but he wanted to get it over with. He got up from the chair, kneeling on the floor before them.
Ser Dafeld took the coronet from the pillow and held it before Nathye. It was a simple thing, gold and silver, unadorned. Nathye would have to improve it, make it more fitting someone of his station, of his ambition. A conquering hero needs an appropriate mark of office.
Ser Dafeld placed the coronet on Nathye¡¯s head, then bid him rise as duke. Ser Dafeld knelt, helping the aging Ser Ancis do the same.
That was more like it, Nathye standing tall and the world acknowledging his greatness.
His people all followed suit, kneeling to acknowledge his ascension. Georguy Drewill, that cross between an alleycat and a burrowing worm, had found something in his quest for the crown. His finger was holding up what he had dug out of his nostril. After careful consideration, the future Duke of Drewill stuck his finger in his mouth.
Dinner was a merry affair. Nathye, at the behest of Ser Ancis, had spared little expense, and the guests were all arrayed in the great hall enjoying the feast and wine. At least this was a use for his father¡¯s wine, the bottles that had been accumulating in the basement.
To Nathye¡¯s left was that discoverer of the lost emperor¡¯s crown, the boy Georguy Drewill. By now, he was ignoring the food, the sampling of his nose¡¯s bounty had satiated his hunger. He mostly drank of the wine and was already nodding off.
To Nathye¡¯s right were a few of his barons, and the other dukes¡¯ representatives were seated around the table. A few had tried striking up conversations with Nathye, talking about trade rights and favorable deals. He had no patience for this. His father was content to play that game, but Nathye was more interested in glory.
¡°How is trade with Rameri?¡± he asked Duke Walteph¡¯s representative. The rotund man was sitting opposite Nathye, emptying his plate of anything the servants put on it and constantly getting his wine glass refilled. His thinning hair formed channels for the rivulets of sweat that streamed down his face.
¡°Oh, Your Grace,¡±¡ªhe raised his wine glass in one hand and gestured with a spoon in another¡ª¡°it is well. They like our pelts, and we like their spices.¡± He licked the spoon with that, ahhing in pleasure, though the spoon was empty.
¡°You don¡¯t think the Duke will need to mount an offensive against them?¡± Nathye probed.
¡°An offensive, Your Grace? I don¡¯t see how. Crossing the Gebluff Range and the plateau with an army is always challenging. And what¡ª¡± hic ¡±¡ªwould we conquer? Even the empire didn¡¯t stay there for long.¡±
Nathye had had similar conversations all day. Commerce ruled everything. The Dukes did not want to conquer, or at least their representatives did not know of any such plans. They were all content, dealing with small squabbles, enjoying their lives.
¡°We should¡we should¡we¡¡±¡ªGeorguy Drewill was waving his booger-digging finger in the air like a sword¡ª¡°fight the mountains!¡±
The next course arrived, servants coming to stand behind all the diners at the table holding covered plates in their hands. The conversation slowed as the servants, as one, leaned in to place their plates on the table, removing the covers as they stood back up.
Steam billowed from the plates, the scent of cooked meat with pepper and coriander floating into Nathye¡¯s nose. As the steam cleared, he saw two eyes staring at him from the plate. The dallen had been skinned and splayed, lying on the plate with its head pointed at Nathye.
Nathye pushed back from the table, knocking the waiter behind him down. His heart was beating, his eyes locked on the dallen in a staring context he could not win.
¡°Your Grace, is something wrong with the meal?¡± asked Ser Ancis.
Nathye was standing now, hearing just his blood thumping in his ears. The dallen continued staring at him.
¡°Your Grace?¡± Ser Ancis, again.
He noticed everyone staring at him. That snapped him out of the contest of wills with the dallen. Looking around, he saw that even Georguy Drewill, future Duke of Nose Picking, had snapped from his mountain-conquering daydream and was staring at him wide-eyed.
¡°I hadn¡¯t realized we had dallen on the menu today,¡± he said, not sure how to make them all forget his sudden jump.
¡°It is customary, Your Grace,¡± said Ser Ancis, not explaining what was so damn customary about this.
¡°Well, I don¡¯t like dallen.¡±
Nathye turned around, walking out of the room. They must have done this on purpose, making him look at the dallen.
Well, he¡¯d done his part. He¡¯d formally ascended, and it didn¡¯t matter what they all thought. He couldn¡¯t stand the stares of all the people, those fools. It wasn¡¯t the staring, dead dallens in the room who were making him uncomfortable.
He left the people to enjoy their stupid dinner.
Chapter Fifteen: Roge
¡°Come have dinner,¡± Enell called from the house.
Roge split the last piece of wood with the axe, then stacked the wood in the shed, hanging the axe on the wall inside. The sun had already set beyond the trees, a cool wind blowing from the forest, cooling his heated body. He sprayed some water from a nearby trough on his face and neck, washing himself from the day¡¯s sweat, and walked towards the house.
The water cascaded down his skin, running over the many scars he carried. It had taken his bones weeks to knit, and he still felt aches when he stretched. When he was finally able to sit up and get his legs under him, he leaped at the chance to get out of bed.
He¡¯d started small, walking around the room, then the house, then the yard. He¡¯d helped Enell as she walked around the farm, feeding the animals. He carried her satchel and helped cast the food when he was able to make more abrupt movements with his hands without his back spasming.
That fearsome animal, Ser Jossa, had its gimlet eyes on him at first, but Enell stood her ground, and the rooster gave up and flew to stand on a fencepost to observe its domain. It was a marvel to Roge, who had never seen a chicken, though he¡¯d heard of them from the pilgrims who came to the monastery.
¡°It won¡¯t bite you,¡± Enell had laughed that first day he went out of the house. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯ve never seen a rooster before.¡±
Roge wasn¡¯t sure what to say. He did not want to let her know where he was from. He was now Dalle, but where was Dalle from that he¡¯d never seen so many things she took for granted?
¡°I don¡¯t remember seeing one,¡± he said, careful in how he phrased his response.
¡°You must have hit your head hard. I had a piglet once got kicked in the head by a horse and had to be reminded to eat after that. We just ate it.¡±
She took up most of the conversation, which suited Roge, who wasn¡¯t sure what to talk about. The dead and taking care of them did not seem an appropriate topic in this farm he found himself on.
She showed him how to feed the chickens and pigs and how to help clean the coops and sheds. As he grew stronger, he started doing more of the physical labor, helping her and her father, Reder.
The night was warm, no wind blowing. There were no clouds in the sky, and both moons joined the myriad stars, shining enough light to see clearly. Roge liked this time of night when he could enjoy the quiet without worrying about the freezing cold of the desert blowing at the top of the mountain.
He was sitting outside, whittling a piece of wood with a knife. Wood was plentiful here on the plains, unlike at the monastery, where every piece was precious. He had decided to teach himself how to make shapes like Edmur Eyser used to do. He¡¯d never learned how the man became so proficient, what with resources being so scarce, but now Roge had the opportunity.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
He was so focused on the rounding of a head that he was deaf and blind to the world. Her smell brought him back to himself. Enell was standing next to him, looking at him working. He looked up at her, wisps of her hair catching the moons¡¯ light, and she smiled at him.
¡°What are you making, Dalle?¡±
He was getting used to the name. The first few times Reder called him by the name when they were out on the farm, he had to repeat it a couple of times until Roge realized the man was calling him. It was getting easier to respond to Dalle. He wished she could call him Roge, but he was no longer that man. That old life was over.
¡°I¡¯m not sure yet,¡± he said as she sat down on the log next to him. ¡°I want to see what shape emerges. I¡¯m not very good.¡±
¡°Did you make that dallen in your room?¡±
The memory of Edmur Eyser hit him again, and his hands dropped.
¡°What is it?¡± she asked.
¡°The man who made it is dead.¡±
¡°Who was he?¡±
¡°He was¡¡± How to explain what Edmur Eyser was to him? ¡°He took care of me since I was a child.¡±
¡°He was your father?¡±
¡°No, but as good as.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry, Dalle,¡± she said, laying a hand on his arm. ¡°What about your parents?¡±
¡°I never knew them.¡±
Her hand clasped his arm now, and though he was looking straight ahead, he could sense her.
¡°My ma died when I was young,¡± she said. ¡°I remember her, but it has been me and my father ever since.¡±
¡°What did you do with her?¡± he asked, curious if they had come to the monastery.
¡°We buried her back of the house. I still talk to her every once in a while.¡±
That made sense. Most people did not make it to the monastery.
¡°Talk to her?¡±
¡°Yes. Tell her stories about what happened to me, and sometimes ask her questions. My father doesn¡¯t know much about women.¡±
¡°Does she answer?¡± Roge was curious.
¡°Not directly, but I sometimes feel more peaceful. Do you do that with your¡ father?¡±
¡°I have not tried,¡± he said truthfully, thinking that Edmur Eyser¡¯s body was at the bottom of the desert below the monastery.
¡°Well, maybe you could try asking your dallen,¡± he heard the smile in her voice.
They sat there for a while longer, him whittling, she telling him about growing up on the farm.
It was the hottest part of the day as Roge worked in the field, wondering why Redel had not yet been by to collect him. The old man stopped his work when it got too hot, chose to go eat, then do some things around the farm before continuing in the field later.
He straightened, taking off his sweat-stained cap and drenching it even more by wiping his brow and face. Donning it again, he looked around, not seeing Redel.
A flight of small green birds rose from behind the trees separating the fields. Redel said they ate the eggs and larvae of insects that preyed on the wheat. They spent their days between the stalks. Was that the direction Redel had gone?
Roge walked through the field, the wholesome, fresh smell of growing wheat and drying earth surrounding him. The green wheat stalks weren¡¯t tall enough to hide Redel, though a few trees grew here and there, creating pockets that obscured parts of the field. As he approached the plot the old man was supposed to be working, he heard a moan.
¡°Redel?¡± he called.
Running, he arrived at the field, looking around. He couldn¡¯t see the man, but another moan directed him. He walked over, crossing into the wheat from the path, and soon found the man on the ground. Redel was on his back, clutching his leg, face contorted in pain.
¡°Redel?¡± he asked, kneeling down by the farmer, who was too preoccupied with the pain to notice Roge.
Chapter Sixteen: Nathye
Azure sky with white cotton clouds peered down on Duke Nathye of Bewic. He was strolling along a street in town, his guards in tow, though guards against what, he wasn¡¯t sure. The world conspired to be pleasant, not to offend.
He took another swig from the bottle he was holding, one he had liberated from his father¡¯s¡ªno, from his¡ªwine cellar, and looked at the shops that fronted the sidewalk. People were walking about, chasing small and unimportant tasks in their meaningless lives. They smiled at him, giving way and bowing, recognizing his greatness¡ªhe swayed to the side, almost crashing into a table on the sidewalk, stupid table¡ªas was his due. He took another swig of the wine.
He was bored. There was nothing to do in Bewic. He knew all the shops and had sampled all that the restaurants had to offer. He had even dressed as a commoner once and gone to a gambling hall at night. Ser Dafeld almost had apoplexy at that but agreed to send a few guards, also dressed as commoners, to go with Nathye. The people were pleasant. He won. It was boring.
A pair of men was coming his way down the sidewalk, struggling with a large crate between them. One, wearing a stained red shirt, was walking backward toward Nathye. The men strained under the heavy load, probably some irrelevant thing that someone wanted somewhere else. Nathye kept walking forward, the sidewalk unsteady under him, drinking from his bottle.
The men were not planning on moving out of his way. Did they even see him? Nathye coughed, continuing to walk forward.
The man farther back, facing Nathye, raised his head and saw Nathye. His face, contorted under the effort, looked at his friend, then back at Nathye. ¡°Passing through!¡± he called out.
Nathye was indeed passing through. He continued walking, almost up to the pair. Were they not planning on giving ground?
One of his guards called out, ¡°Make way for the Duke!¡± as was proper.
The two men carrying the crate were almost upon them. The red-shirted man twisted his head to look back. The other stretched his neck, trying to figure out what was going on.
¡°Clear the way,¡± the red-shirted man yelled, sweat running down his face as his hands lifted the crate up and he took another step.
¡°Anthond, ¡¯tis the Duke. We must stop!¡± said the other, a thick mustache serving as the resting ground for his large nose.
¡°Can¡¯t stop, Wisym. If I put it down, it ain¡¯t coming up again,¡± said the red-shirted one.
Wisym was slowing down, pulling the crate back. Anthond continued his backward walk.
Nathye, almost upon them, raised his bottle to order them around. He took a step forward and stumbled, about to crash into them. At the last second, he felt hands grab him from behind and move him onto the street, where he and his rescuer stood in a fragrant pile of horse dung.
Wisym, by now, had stopped moving, while Anthond had taken that last crucial step. The crate, making up its own mind, left Anthond¡¯s hand and crashed to the floor. The weight proved too much for Wisym, and his side pushed down, leaving his hands and crashing into his knees on the way down to land spectacularly on his feet.
Wisym looked down in shock at his legs. Blood was starting to soak through his pants, covering his knees. His mouth opened, and a thin, high wail came out, barely audible. He tried stepping back, but the crate had landed on his feet and was holding him in place.
Anthond could not see the blood, the crate hiding his friend¡¯s knees from him. He looked at Wisym¡¯s face that was making a great impersonation of a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing, and barked a laugh. Pointing at Wisym, he said, ¡°What are you about?¡±
Wisym tried bending down to push the crate off his legs, but since he couldn¡¯t step back, the angle just made it so that he pushed the crate onto his feet even more. Yelping in pain, he finally folded on himself, falling down behind the crate to lie down, feet still stuck under it, knees sticking up. The blood soaking his pants became obvious.
¡°Help,¡± he cried, ¡°help me!¡±
Nathye couldn¡¯t help himself. He started laughing, bending over, clutching at his side. The bottle fell from his hand, falling on the ground, rolling in the manure.
His men moved to lift the crate, helping Anthond free Wysim. Nathye stopped his laughter and said, ¡°I do not appreciate being dropped in manure. Let¡¯s go.¡± He walked away, not looking back.
Birds circled above the crowd in the big square, looking for the crumbs of food dropped by the gawkers who came to see the spectacle. The more adventurous birds would dine on more gruesome fare later. Nathye sensed the kindred spirits in their drive.
He was dressed in his black frock with its silver buttons, his sword buckled at his waist. His black shoes were polished to a shine, and he could see the sky and birds reflected in them. He let his long hair flow back from his head down his back. The crowd would get the show they expected today. They would see their lord in all his magnificence, delivering justice.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
¡°Your Grace,¡± said Ser Dafeld, standing next to Nathye on the raised platform, ¡°I would entreat you once more to commute their sentence.¡±
¡°You forget yourself, Dafeld. I have made my decision.¡±
Nathye stepped forward, standing on the edge of the platform, looking at the people arrayed before him. Looking down, he saw their expectant eyes staring back up at him. He raised his hands, and the hubbub quieted down.
¡°My people!¡± he cried. ¡°Today, justice will be served.¡±
He could hear murmurs in the crowd. They must be as anxious as he was to see this done.
He stepped back, looking to the platform. Three gallows had hastily been constructed in front of the platform from which announcements were made to the town, from which celebrations were carried out, on which the traveling troupes his father invited had come to perform. His father seldom executed anyone, and when he had, it was done quickly and privately. Nathye was going to change that.
The gallows were a solid constructions. He was not going to suffer a botched hanging, allowing a criminal to walk free on a technicality. He¡¯d made it clear to the workmen who built it that if the condemned didn¡¯t die, the builders would dangle there instead. They used strong beams and thick ropes, anchoring the frames to the platform with metal brackets. These gallows would likely remain here when the next troupe showed up to perform and would have to be incorporated into their plays.
Two men were standing in front of the ropes hanging down from the beams. Both had their hands tied behind their backs, both shaking. Nathye wrinkled his nose at the smell of fresh piss; one of them had not been able to face his punishment like a man.
¡°Thury,¡± Nathye called over his shoulder, ¡°come up here!¡±
The guard, looking perplexed, climbed the steps up to the platform and came to stand by Nathye.
¡°You will assist,¡± Nathye said, waving the executioner away. The hooded executioner looked to Ser Dafeld, then just moved to the side.
¡°Yes, Your Grace,¡± said Thury.
¡°Any last words?¡± Nathye asked the two men.
¡°Your Grace, mercy, please. We did not see you. We could not move out of the way,¡± said Anthond, the red-shirted man who had walked with his back to Nathye.
The other, fingers on both feet broken from the crate falling on him and knees bloody, was swaying in place. His mouth opened, but only a pained mumble came out.
¡°I understand, but lessons must be taught,¡± Nathye said. ¡°Thury, cover their heads and place the nooses.¡± He was not a monster, after all.
The executioner handed Thury two canvas bags. Thury put one over the red-shirted man. Nathye could now see the dark piss stain between his legs. The man kept mumbling, ¡°Please, mercy, mercy. Oh, Dark Stuse, welcome me to your embrace.¡± The canvas muffled the annoying noise. Next, he placed the closest noose over the man¡¯s neck.
Thury moved on to the second, mustachioed man. He placed the canvas over his head as well. The man was swaying, and Thury stabilized him, placing the noose over him as well.
The murmuring of the crowd had grown hushed now. Like Nathye, they must all be expecting justice now.
Taking a deep breath, Nathye took control of his destiny. ¡°Thury,¡± he said loudly, ¡°these men have not paid proper respect to their duke. I have found them guilty, their punishment death. Execute them!¡±
Thury looked at him, his eyes as wide as the tea saucers he remembered his mother using when Nathye was small, and she took him to her sitting room.
His mouth worked once, twice, then he got out a weak, ¡°Your Grace?¡±
¡°Do it!¡±
Thury, looking around as if anyone would save him from carrying out his rightful job, dragged his legs to stand behind the first man, who was still mumbling incoherent prayers. One hand covering his stomach as if he were cold on this sunny day, he lifted the other to the man¡¯s back, then pushed.
The man, who was standing on the edge of the platform, gave a yelp as he took a step forward into thin air. His body, trying to find stable ground, angled down, one leg still on the platform. As his head descended to almost the level of the platform, the rope stretched and reached its full length. A loud snap sounded, and the head bounced. His back leg slipped off the platform and allowed the body to fully dangle, now limp, arms and legs swinging independently like a marionette controlled by an artless amateur. His head smacked against the platform with a thud of finality, and his body kept swaying underneath.
Nathye was surprised. He¡¯d heard people suffocated and kicked their legs, but this man died quickly.
Thury stood on the platform, hand still outstretched as if he were admonishing the crowd, eyes looking down to the head at his feet. Nathye cleared his throat, and Thury looked to Nathye. Nathye gestured with his chin to the second man.
Thury turned and walked behind the other man. He needn¡¯t have bothered. The man, exhausted from his injuries, slid to his knees. On the edge of the platform, his knees met empty air, and he slowly slid off the platform, noose tightening around his neck. Unlike the other, this was a proper hanging. Choking sounds came from him as his legs started kicking, and he jerked on the rope this way and that, his body twitching.
Nathye stood there savoring the justice for the couple of minutes it took the man to stop moving. The murmurs of the crowd grew, probably commenting on Nathye¡¯s justice to their neighbors.
Nathye moved over to Thury, guiding him by the elbow to move farther back on the platform. The man was not reacting well to the excitement of the day. That was fine. It would make the next part easier.
¡°Thury, there is one more thing we need to do, you and I.¡±
Thury looked at him, though Nathye could see there was little comprehension in his eyes.
Placing one hand on Thury¡¯s shoulder, Nathye reached over and grabbed the third rope that was dangling from the beam with the other. Thury was looking at him and didn¡¯t see what Nathye¡¯s hand was doing. He brought it behind Thury¡¯s head and paused.
¡°That day, when you moved me from the path of the men, you put me down in manure. Disrespect, Thury, will not be tolerated!¡± he said, screaming the last part so that the guards and the crowd would all hear.
He placed the rope over Thury¡¯s head, the guard looking up at him, not understanding what was going on. He tightened the noose, then, in one swift motion, he swung Thury off the platform and into thin air.
The man, still looking at Nathye, fell down, neck snapping from the force. The rope returned his body to the platform, banging the head against the platform once, twice, until just the body kept swaying below.
There were gasps from the crowd, then silence. No one spoke. Birds cried above, and a baby joined them, audible in the sudden hush.
Nathye turned and walked off the platform, ignoring the stares of the guards, trusting them to follow him back to the carriage.
Chapter Seventeen: Roge
Roge stood in the yard, muscles aching from loading the cart with sacks of wheat, watching the cart raise a dust cloud as it trundled away. They had started loading in the dark hours of the morning since Enell would need a few hours to get to market. The sun was just starting to rise, the summer day promising to be a hot one. Stretching, he turned back into the house to find something to eat and check on Redel.
The old farmer¡¯s hip had shattered so badly that he had been bedridden for the last couple of months. He had grumbled and complained but had not been able to rise to do anything around the farm.
Roge had shouldered a lot of the work on the farm, helping Enell, who was more than capable of working the fields and caring for the livestock and could show him what to do. They had fallen into a comfortable routine, she showing, him learning as the season turned and new work had to be done.
Once a week, she would take the cart into the small village a few hours away, getting some needed supplies or selling surplus. Sometimes, she would get a tool they needed repaired, or had the horses looked at. Everything else, they did themselves. The farm received very few visitors, the closest neighbors a few miles away, also farmers busy at their own work.
The last few times, she brought back news that the new duke was preparing for war. What war and with whom was unclear, but stories about the duke were slowly making their way from Bewic. Executions, brutality, fear.
¡°Young Gery Burney has gone off to Bewic,¡± she told them at dinner one day after returning from one of her trips.
¡°That fool¡°¡ªthe old man spat on the floor¡ª¡±whatever for?¡±
¡°He¡¯s not the only one. The Graffolk¡¯s younger son and Rewis the Earless, too.¡±
¡°The earless?¡± Roge asked.
¡°Lost his ear playing at being a hero with a hoe¡°¡ªthe old man spat again¡ª¡±stupid boys all of them, but that one most of all.¡±
¡°It wasn¡¯t him that cut his ear off. It was Grancent, and he¡¯s still here.¡±
The old man just grunted, saying nothing.
¡°Why are they going?¡± Roge asked.
¡°There are rumors the duke pays well for people to join his army. No one¡¯s sure,¡± she said.
¡°They should be helping their parents on their farms,¡± Reder said.
¡°You know the farms aren¡¯t big enough for some of them. Too many kids to inherit,¡± Enell said.
¡°Start a new farm. Plenty of land around here. Stupid boys think they will get rich. All they¡¯d get is dead.¡±
¡°Not just boys. Sarry¡¯s gone as well. Ran away in the night. Half the wives were talking about it.¡±
The old man had nothing to say to that.
As the cart disappeared around the bend, Roge turned around and went into the house. He and Enell had been growing close over the past months. This place was comfortable. It was alive. Here, the only dead he had to deal with were the animals they killed for food. He liked living here, working on the farm.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
He more than liked Enell. She brought a renewed interest into his life, a feeling of exultation he never knew existed. He didn¡¯t know what to make of it, but there it was. Every time that cart disappeared, his heart, his whole body, felt like a part of it was physically missing.
Her father, being bedridden, had given them more time to get closer. They¡¯d worked together in the fields, wrestled the livestock together, sat outside under the stars, and talked.
¡°Redel?¡± he called as he walked into the house. ¡°You up?¡±
¡°¡®Course I¡¯m up. Nothing to do here except be up.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll get you something to eat. Enell already left for the market.¡±
Putting together two plates, he walked into the old man¡¯s room. The smell of warm urine hit him as he came in, the small bucket by the bed still having some foam that had not dissipated floating on top of the yellow liquid. The old man, stubborn as a goat, had insisted on using the bucket to piss, despite the pain it caused him every time he did.
Roge put the plates down on the nearby nightstand, taking the bucket out to empty it. Coming back, he helped the man raise his head, then gave him a plate and sat by him, taking one for himself.
¡°So,¡± Redel said, face contorting with pain as his body strained to tear a piece of yesterday¡¯s dried bread, ¡°you thinking of joining that stupid war?¡±
Roge hadn¡¯t, in fact, been thinking of that. He didn¡¯t know what to make of those rumors. War didn¡¯t really affect the monastery. There had not been many wars recently, and the ones they heard about from pilgrims were far away. Those dead did not make it up the mountain.
¡°What would I do there?¡±
¡°Smart boy,¡± Redel said, dipping the bread in his stew and biting into it.
They both ate in silence for a bit, and then Redel said, ¡°You could stay here with us.¡±
Roge looked at him, not saying anything. He hadn¡¯t really thought about the future. He¡¯d been broken, and they helped fix him, saved his life. Since, he¡¯d just been following orders, surviving from day to day. Instead of Edmur Eyser telling him what to do, it was Enell and Redel.
Redel, taking that as reluctance, said, ¡°Look Dalle, I don¡¯t know where you¡¯re from. I know you¡¯ve not run away from a farm. We had to show you how to work the fields, and the way you jumped that first day you saw the rooster, well, that was mighty strange. I don¡¯t care. You¡¯re a good man, and you treat my daughter well. She could use a good husband, a family. It¡¯s clear that you two like each other. I will not be here forever.¡±
Roge didn¡¯t say anything.
¡°Think about it, at least,¡± Redel said, going back to his stew.
Roge went out and fed the animals. He checked on the fields, then fixed a post in the fence that needed setting.
He had enjoyed living here. He could see himself staying here, making a family with Enell, working with Redel in the fields.
A family. He had a family before, but they were all dead now. He had not thought about them in a while, but thinking about family brought back memories of them, of the little ones running around in the evenings, playing. Memories of sitting outside in the evenings with his friend Rancis Essenceblight, talking about the pilgrims that had climbed up the mountain, comparing who had seen the most shocked face come out of a conversation with the dead, or working together to move a corpse who overindulged in life. He thought about Edmur Eyser and all he had meant to him when he was growing up.
He had made a promise to his old family. He had been told things by the old duke.
He finished with the yard, then went inside and cleaned the old man. Once Redel had fallen asleep, he went to the kitchen and prepared some food for when Enell came back home. He took some and left it in Redell¡¯s room for when he¡¯d wake up.
He went to his own room and looked. His pack from the monastery was there, with the knives, axe, and what little money he could find. The monastery didn¡¯t have much, just a few coins it had collected for shrouds, which it, in turn, had to buy from traders. He hadn¡¯t looked in that pack since he¡¯d come here, except to take out his spare shirt.
His whittling had improved. He had crafted a few progressively better figurines, shaping the birds he saw, the horses, and even Ser Jossa, the rooster. The one he was working on now was almost complete. He took it out, looking at the half-carved face. One side was detailed and smooth, while the other was rough-hewn, waiting for the knife to bring out its inner beauty. It reminded him of the rock of the monastery, a half-face. It was appropriate.
He took the small carved dallen from the table, put it back into his pack, and hoisted it onto his back.
When Enell came back that night, she found a meal ready for her, a cantankerous old man yelling that he wanted some water, and a half-carved figure of her face. Of Dalle, there was no trace.
Chapter Eighteen: Nathye
A knock sounded on Nathye¡¯s door.
Opening his eyes, he looked up at the ceiling, which was higher than he remembered. Had he shrunk? Had he moved to a bigger chamber? The mattress felt as if someone had thrown a sheet over a solid block of granite. He needed to get a better bed.
He reached his hand to the bedside table, trying to find the bottle of wine he remembered leaving there. His hand found a bottle lying on its side, bumping into it and causing it to roll away. It surprisingly didn¡¯t fall to the floor.
Nathye turned his head and blinked a few times, trying to readjust his point of view. The bottle was rolling away from him under the bed? Yes, he was on the floor and, in fact, lying on a rug. That explained the solid granite feeling of the mattress. He must have passed out last night.
The knock sounded again.
¡°En¡ter,¡± he tried calling, but it ended with a whimper as his head throbbed with the first syllable, and he finished the word quietly.
Ser Ancis entered the chamber while Nathye tried to sit up. The bottle, having found a slight inclination in the floor, rolled back down towards Nathye, adding to the noise in his head and the vertigo from changing his position.
¡°Your Grace, we need to talk about the duchy¡¯s finances,¡± Ser Ancis said without preamble. He did not even give Nathye time to wake up properly.
¡°It¡¯s early morning, Ser Ancis. Do we have to talk about this right now?¡±
¡°It¡¯s past noon, Your Grace. I had been here three times already today.¡±
Nathye tried to remember if he¡¯d been awake for these conversations. ¡°What about the finances, Ser Ancis?¡± he said, leaning against the bed, not trusting himself to stand up.
¡°In short, Your Grace, ordering the new statues and redoing all the heraldry wasa significant draw on the reserves.¡±
¡°The people need to know of my magnificence, Ser Ancis. We have discussed this.¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace. The problem is that the tax collectors are back. We had underestimated how many people have left in the last few months. Taxes are lower this year.¡±
¡°Who left where?¡± asked Nathye, curious. Could he go there too?
¡°We think the ones who aren¡¯t tied down, like the farmers to the land, are going to other, hem, duchies, Your Grace.¡± The seneschal was uncomfortable talking about this.
¡°Why?¡± asked Nathye, now truly interested.
¡°We don¡¯t know for certain, Your Grace, but we think they are afraid.¡±
¡°Afraid of what?¡±
¡°Of you.¡±
Nathye felt awake for the first time in weeks. It wasn¡¯t good that taxes were going down, but he appreciated his people¡¯s recognition. This was good.
¡°Ser Ancis,¡± Nathye said, his head finally rising, bloodshot eyes opening up with a gleam of anticipation, ¡°draft a proclamation. We are raising an army. Figure out appropriate rates for veterans and greenstalks.¡±
¡°Your Grace, who are we fighting? How would we pay for this?¡±
¡°Just draft the damn proclamation, gods damn you!¡±¡ªNathye grabbed the bottle that was now back by him and flung it at the door by Ser Ancis¡¯s head. It shattered on impact, scattering glass and some of the remaining wine. That was a waste.
Ser Ancis flinched, then turned around and left the room. Nathye started looking for another bottle, but his mind was waking up now. He had an army to prepare, a campaign to plan.
He got up.
Nathye¡¯s fledgling war council included Ser Dafeld, Ser Ancis, and two guards the former recommended, Edmugh and Gyles Gelnne. Nathye was considering adding a baron to it, but he wanted to start now, and they were all a day¡¯s ride out.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
¡°We are taking an army to Duke Drewill¡¯s domain. I intend to take it,¡± Nathye said. He was dressed in his best black, having cleaned up before he summoned all of them. His eyes were still red, but there was not much he could do about that.
¡°Your Grace, may I ask why we are attacking?¡± Ser Dafeld asked.
¡°Does it matter?¡±
¡°If the other dukes see this as unprovoked or unjustified, they might lend Drewill their support.¡±
¡°Only Walteph will,¡± said Ser Ancis, who had changed his clothing. There was a cut on his cheek. ¡°There is no great love between him and the others.¡±
¡°He had insulted me by sending a child to my ascension, a child who further insulted me during the ceremony,¡± said Nathye. ¡°If needs be, I will find a better reason. For now, I need to know how many people we will need to capture Owdale.¡±
¡°The duke has a small standing army, though they are mostly for show. They have not been to war in many years. Some of them might be veterans of other wars who came home and had taken positions there, but the army is not well trained. Still, the city has a wall. We will need at least a few thousand people and siege engines.¡± Ser Dafeld, who was a veteran himself, had at least some basic understanding of warcraft.
¡°That is expensive, Your Grace,¡± said Ser Ancis.
¡°Money begets money, Sir Ancis,¡±¡ªNathye waived the concern away. ¡°Ser Dafeld, where do we find them?¡±
¡°The duchy will have enough young men looking to make their fortune, and we can recruit further out.¡±
¡°The cost?¡± Ser Ancis asked, a sigh of resignation driving the words, a pen poised over paper.
¡°We can pay peace rations while there isn¡¯t fighting, higher rates during the fights,¡± Ser Dafeld said.
¡°We do not need to pay for training. Tell them they will get food, a place to sleep, and training. Once trained, they will then start earning their pay.¡±
¡°Your Grace, I do not know if they will agree. The veterans¡ª¡± said Ser Dafeld.
¡°Pay the veterans their rates from the beginning. But have them prove their ability and make them train the others,¡± Nathye said.
¡°Yes, Your Grace. Gyles Gelnne, you¡¯re in charge of training the new men,¡± Ser Dafeld said.
The man, a short, stocky man who had been quiet until now, perked up at that. His sunken eyes seemed to shine under his black hair, and his back straightened. ¡°Yes, My Lord!¡±
The men, mostly young, poured in. A few women had as well, and Nathye told Ser Dafeld and Gyles Gelnne to allow them to join the army. There was no reason to turn them down so long as they were willing to accept the same terms as everyone else. When storming a wall, bodies were bodies, and dead people were dead people.
There were very few veterans in all. The wars were all far away from Bewic, and those who left to fight in them seldom returned. The few that enlisted were put in charge of training. In the last month, a thousand people have joined the fledgling army. Not enough to conquer a walled city, but enough to take on a walled toilet should Nathye find one the other duke had neglected to guard.
¡°We do not have enough funds to equip everyone with weapons. I¡¯m not sure there are enough weapons to be had in the duchy even if we had the funds,¡± Ser Ancis, ever the doomsayer, was leading the charge in today¡¯s council meeting.
¡°They are training with sticks for now. We are not ready to equip them yet,¡± Nathye said.
¡°They would need to get used to the weight of a sword,¡± Ser Dafeld¡¯s dour disposition added to the meeting¡¯s negative ambiance.
¡°Can they weigh their sticks with stones for the training?¡± asked Nathye. It should have been much simpler to start a war.
¡°We¡¯ll get it done, Your Grace,¡± said Edmugh. The tall, light-haired guard was impressing Nathye more and more with his ability to accommodate.
¡°We still need money for food,¡± Ser Ancis said. ¡°They can¡¯t eat the rocks.¡±
¡°The vultures in the area have all raised their prices,¡± said Baron Hany.
He was the only one Nathye had added to the war council. The others had all begged off with some excuse or another, and Nathye could see their desires for a comfortable life had made them ill-suited for war. Rumors had it that the baron was the grandson of a bandit who was elevated to the barony by Nathye¡¯s grandfather for some favor or another. Banditry in the area had miraculously stopped, though the stocky baron, two generations removed, with his beefy fingers and paunch, still looked like a bandit gone soft. His manners evidenced his pedigree.
¡°They have been raising the prices. I had to threaten some broken bones to get some wheat at a reasonable rate,¡± the baron continued.
¡°We¡¯ll starve the duchy, Your Grace,¡± Ser Ancis said.
¡°The duchy will have the spoils of war, Ser Ancis. I think we need to get some of that money back from the traders, though. My father always talked about how taxation influences trade. Let¡¯s raise taxes on wheat and meat. In fact, double the taxes.¡±
¡°Your Grace, that will starve the people. They will not be able to pay the cost of food,¡± said Ser Dafeld.
¡°Then they may join the army,¡± said Nathye.
¡°Your Grace, please consider. There may be other ways to get the supplies we need. We could buy from other duchies,¡± Ser Dafeld said.
¡°The closest duchy is Owdale. Shall we buy from Duke Drewill? Enrich his coffers? Arm him ere we make war?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°Your Grace¡ª¡± Ser Dafeld started.
He was getting tired of this, of being the one solving every problem while others were just piling issues in front of him. Ever since he hung that guard, Thury, Ser Dafeld had been cold, resisting, unhelpful. Now, he was actively refusing to do what was needed. Didn¡¯t he understand that they were gearing up for war?
¡°Ser Dafeld,¡± Nathye said, ¡°thank you for your advice. You are relieved of your position as head of the guard and removed from this council. Please join the veterans training the army. Edmugh, you¡¯re in charge of the army now.¡±
Chapter Nineteen: Roge
It was late afternoon by the time Roge emerged to walk on the road leading to Bewic. He¡¯d purposefully walked through neighboring fields and behind other farms. He told himself it was shortening his way, but he really did not want to run into Enell on her way back from the market. A few times, people from the fields called out to him. He waved back but kept walking. Dogs barked, and two even chased him until he was far enough away from their turf.
The road was mostly deserted at this time of day, most people already back on their farms. He walked on, knowing the general direction of the city. It was warm, and he expected he could walk a fair distance past sunset. Eventually, he grew tired. He found a copse of trees by the road, drank water from a nearby stream, and went to sleep.
He woke when the birds started singing about the morning¡¯s glory and, after a quick breakfast, set out. He saw a cart coming toward him. A man and a woman were sitting in front, the woman driving the cart.
As they approached, he called out, ¡°Hello! Is that the way to Bewic?¡±
¡°Are you joining the duke¡¯s army?¡± asked the man as the woman stopped the cart.
¡°Don¡¯t you get any ideas, Richye Koerwe,¡± said the woman, thumping him on the thigh.
The man ignored her, his whole body leaning towards Roge.
¡°Not the army. Just going to Bewic,¡± Roge said.
The man deflated, his eyes losing their luster. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s the way. Why not join the army?¡±
¡°Are you recruiting for his lordship now, Richye Koerwe?¡± she said, then to Roge, ¡°Don¡¯t you listen to him. Nothing good will come of that army.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know how to fight,¡± Roge said. ¡°Who is the duke fighting?¡±
¡°His own stupidity,¡± the woman said and flicked the reins. ¡°Ha!¡± she told the horse, and the cart started moving.
¡°Riches¡ glory¡,¡± Roge heard the man mumble as the cart drove away.
¡°So many young gone to death and glory, and all the old will starve on the farms,¡± Roge heard the woman say.
A few days later, he was walking along the river bank, a forest on the other side of him. A light summer¡¯s rain had fallen that morning, cleaning the air of the dust that was blowing in the wind. The smell of clean air and wet earth filled his nostrils, alien to someone who grew up on the mountain. He was enjoying the walk, looking at the river¡¯s water flowing by as the road curved around the forest.
As he turned the bend, he saw two men sitting by one of the trees. One was dozing, while the other was cleaning his nails with a knife, looking his way. They were both wearing the typical farmer¡¯s garb, rough pants, and homespun shirts. As he came by, the man with the knife gave the other a shove with his elbow and then stood up.
¡°Hello, friend,¡± said the man, his blue eyes scanning Roge from top to bottom.
¡°Hello,¡± said Roge.
¡°Are you off to join the duke¡¯s army, then?¡± asked the man.
¡°No,¡± said Roge, deciding to keep walking.
The man walked towards the road, angling to intercept Roge. The other one, now also up, stayed where he was.
¡°Where you off to, then?¡±
Roge ignored the man, continuing to walk.
The man, now standing in the middle of the road, knife in his hand, said, ¡°Just that, there¡¯s a toll.¡±
¡°A toll?¡± asked Roge, stopping. That was not what he expected to hear.
¡°A toll. Maintaining the roads costs money, you know. Washing them, too.¡±
¡°The rain ain¡¯t free,¡± said the other man, a scar running the length of his arm.
¡°Why don¡¯t you join the army, get rich?¡± asked Roge.
¡°If we joined the army, who will maintain the roads?¡± said the blue-eyed man. ¡°Worse roads mean more bandits, more bandits mean less people joining the army. No, my friend. We do our part to help the duke with his war.¡±
The scarred man now had his knife out as well. ¡°Too many bandits,¡± he said, playing with his knife.
¡°And what is this toll?¡± asked Roge. He did not have a weapon ready and did not want to fight these men.
¡°It depends. A different toll for every person,¡± said Blue-eyes.
¡°We accommodate,¡± said Scarred-arm.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
¡°Right, accommodate. Put your pack on the ground and step back,¡± said Blue-eyes.
¡°Accommodate how?¡± asked Roge.
¡°For instance,¡± said Scarred-arm, knife held at the ready, ¡°if you had guards, you needn¡¯t pay the toll.¡±
Not sure what he could do, Roge put his pack on the ground. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he said, ¡°I¡¯m on the business of revenge. Don¡¯t give me another target.¡± He stepped back from the pack.
¡°Revenge is a heavy thing to carry,¡± said Blue-eyes. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing you put the pack down. The two together could break your back and give you a knife in the gut.¡±
They waved Roge back, then Scarred-arm swept in and grabbed the pack. They started walking into the woods.
¡°Hey, I need my pack!¡± Roge yelled.
¡°Thank you for your contribution to the future orphans and widows fund!¡± Blue-eyes yelled back. ¡°That¡¯s mighty generous of you!¡±
With that, they were swallowed by the trees.
Roge sat down, head in his hands. He was a few days out on his trip to Bewic and already out of everything. His food, spare clothes, knives, and axe were all in that pack. He looked down and saw a piece of wood. Picking it up, he thought to whittle it into shape, to give his fingers something to do, but he didn¡¯t even have a knife to do that with.
He thought of the small wooden dallen Edmur Eyser had given him and remembered that it, too, was in the pack. That, more than anything, made up his mind. He could have gone back to the farm and begged Enell¡¯s forgiveness. He could have found somewhere else to live his life. He could even have gone back to the monastery. The duke had probably stopped his search by now. But the two assholes had stolen the one thing in that pack that had any real value to him, any tie to his family.
Getting up, he looked in the direction the two had gone off to. They were no longer in earshot, but Roge remembered where they disappeared into the woods. There was a path there. The two must have taken it.
The wood was not too thick in this area, and Roge could walk alongside the path. Deciding to stay off it, he paralleled it, looking ahead to see if he could spot them. Half an hour later, he saw a smaller trail leading off. He almost missed it, but it was on the side of the path that he was walking, the vegetation trampled in an obvious pattern.
Taking a gamble, he took the trail and quietly walked down it. Ten minutes later he could hear voices through the trees.
He stepped off the trail, circling around quietly until he saw a small clearing. The two men were sitting by blackened campfire remains, packs strewn all around them. They were tossing things out of his pack. The familiar smell of death came from the camp, though he didn¡¯t see where the bodies were.
¡°Some money,¡± said Blue-eyes, as he pulled out the monastery¡¯s meager cash reserve.
¡°I want some ale,¡± said Scarred-arm.
¡°It¡¯s good enough for that. Here, I have a present for you,¡±¡ªBlue-eyes pulled out one of Roge¡¯s shirts and handed it over.
¡°I like my shirt. It¡¯s comfortable, suits me.¡±
¡°It is you. It stinks. The marks can smell us before they see us. That¡¯s why you have to stand way out by the trees. Try it on.¡±
Scarred-arm grumbled but took the shirt.
They tossed the rest of his bag on the floor, ate some of this food. He saw them find the dallen, play with it, then toss it in the firepit. Eventually, once the sun went down, they prepared to go to sleep.
Roge, crouched behind a bush that grew at the base of a tree, was getting tired as well. He was happy for the dark, which made it harder for them to see him.
Blue-eyes got up, walking over to where Roge was hiding. Dropping his pants, he took out his cock and let out a stream, merrily whistling. The piss went into the bush, splashing on the leaves and the ground, droplets hitting roge as they ricocheted.
Roge held his breath and waited for the man to finish.
The night was warm enough that they did not bother with a fire, both going to sleep by the firepit.
Roge didn¡¯t have any weapons. Scouting about quietly, he found a large rock. He hefted it, feeling its weight. He could hold it comfortably in his hand and use it to attack. He could not find another without making a ruckus.
He waited for an hour until snores came from both men. The trail into the clearing was free of debris and discarded items. Roge got up and quietly walked toward the first man.
Kneeling by him, he tried to find one of the weapons but could not see well enough in the dark. Lifting the rock in his hand, he brought it down on the man¡¯s skull as hard as he could. The sound was muffled, the man making a strangled sound, legs kicking. Roge brought the rock up again and once more slammed it down on the man¡¯s head as hard as he could.
The rock hit the man, caving the skull in, then glanced off and hit the ground, making a sound. The man stilled, but the other woke with a start.
¡°What? Symas, what is it?¡± came the tired query.
Roge froze. He wasn¡¯t sure what to do. Moving his hand slowly down the man¡¯s body, he tried to find a knife. Some light was coming down through the clearing, but not enough to see where the man had put his things.
¡°Symas?¡± came the query again. ¡°Did you swallow your tongue again?¡±
Roge was getting desperate. He hoped the man would just turn around and go to sleep. His mind went back to what had worked at the monastery when attacking the two guards, and he grunted, hoping that sleepy man would mistake that for Symas dismissing any concerns.
The other man sat up. He was looking through his things, not saying anything now. Roge moved his hand to where the rock had fallen, questing for it in the dark. Finding it, he held it in his hand as the other man came up from his bedroll and towards Roge and the dead Symas.
The man approached, something glinting in his hand. Roge lunged at him, swinging the rock at his head.
The man stuck with his hand, and Roge felt something cutting into his left arm. The man¡¯s head made a sickening sound as the rock connected. The man moved back, a muffled sound coming from him.
Roge stood up, left arm dangling at his side. He had trouble lifting it and needed to finish this fight quickly. Advancing on the man, stone held in readiness, he tried to ignore the pain.
The man was standing up now, too. He was not stable on his feet, the rock having at least disoriented him. The dark made it hard to assess how much damage was done.
Roge came closer, and the man took a step back, holding the knife in front of him. Another step, and the man retreated again, knife guarding the way.
¡°Wha oo oo ant?¡± the man tried to say, the voice slurring.
¡°My family,¡± Roge said, taking another step forward.
The man stepped back while raising his free hand to check his face. Disoriented, he stumbled on one of the blankets, falling into the firepit. Flailing his hands, he lost his grip on the knife.
Roge didn¡¯t waste the opportunity. Jumping on the man, he straddled him as the man tried to understand what was happening.
The man used his hands to block Roge¡¯s attack.
Roge leaned in, letting the man spend his efforts on his torso and useless arm while bringing the stone in from the side and bashing the man¡¯s skull in. It was over in two quick hits.
Falling to the side, he looked up at the night sky shining serenely at him through the clearing.
Chapter Twenty: Nathye
The scorching sun baked the ground, causing steam to rise off the shit in the open ditch latrines. The smell hit Nathye as he walked with Gyles Gelnne and Edmugh in front of the men. Gyles had invited him to view the current state of the trainees. Nathye, curious about his army and thinking about the glorious legion he would march on Duke Drewill, had readily accepted.
He was coming to regret this now. The men stood before him, looking more like meandering rows of ants than the orderly lines he saw in paintings in his family¡¯s home. They were wearing the ragtag farm clothing they had arrived with since Nathye did not have the funds to equip them with uniforms. He felt he was more at risk of being mobbed by sheep than of being attacked by an army.
¡°We have eight hundred left, Your Grace,¡± said Gyles Gelnne.
¡°We had more than a thousand. What happened to the rest?¡°
¡°Some of them died. We do not have great conditions here, though, in truth, it is good training for the field.¡±
¡°I can smell that.¡± Nathye had a kerchief tied across his nose and mouth despite the heat. The horrible smell was getting to him.
¡°Some ran away when they could not handle the training.¡±
¡°Ran away?¡±
¡°Yes. We caught some of them, the rest have disappeared, probably back to their parent¡¯s farms.¡±
¡°Are any of them here?¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace. That group over there, being guarded.¡± Gyles pointed to five men who were standing at the end of the first row.
Nathye walked over, looking at the men. There were armed guards next to them.
¡°Draw your swords,¡± he told the guards, who did so.
The prisoners, four men and one woman, looked at the guards behind them, then at Nathye.
¡°You¡°¡ªNathye stood in front of the first, a boy of about sixteen. ¡°I understand you want to go home.¡±
¡°Yes, sir. I am not ready for this..this...this life,¡± the boy was shaking, eyes down, not daring to look Nathye in the eyes.
¡°Kill him,¡± he told the guard who was standing behind the boy.
The guard, sword drawn, looked at Nathye to make sure he heard right. Nathye nodded.
¡°No, no, please, sir, I will¡ª¡± the sword cut into his neck, severing his jugular and windpipe and cutting off his speech. Blood sprayed out in a half circle to the side where the sword had cut. The man blinked while the guard used his boot for leverage to pull the sword out. His body collapsed to the floor, blood pumping into the ground.
Flicking blood off his vest, Nathye moved on to the next in line, a girl slightly older. ¡°And you, are you ready to serve the duchy?¡±
The whites of her eyes were clearly visible as she looked at the body on the floor next to her. She looked to Nathye and said, ¡°Yes, sir!¡±
The rest of the men also had no compunction serving.
¡°If they run again,¡± Nathye told Gyles, ¡°kill them. How are the rest of the men? Are they ready to fight?¡±
¡°As ready as we can make them. They need to be bloodied, Your Grace, but I worry that we cannot take a walled city with this force. Ser Dafeld said we needed a lot more soldiers.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
¡°Ser Dafeld is not in charge!¡±
¡°The traders are complaining about the raised taxes, Your Grace,¡± Ser Ancis said. Ever failing to lighten the mood, he was bringing up the next order of business at the war council.
¡°Raised taxes make raised voices, Ser Ancis. It is your job, and that of the tax collectors, to mute them,¡± Nathye said.
¡°They are saying that they cannot run their trade with taxes so high and without raising their prices, which you have also not allowed.¡±
¡°Allow me to make an example of one or two of them, Your Grace. The rest will fall into place,¡± said Baron Hany.
¡°Very well,¡± said Nathye. ¡°Edmugh, support the baron with troops as needed.¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace,¡± said the new commander of the army.
¡°Your Grace¡ª¡± Ser Ancis said.
¡°No! I don¡¯t want to hear more about these petty complaints.¡±
These endless meetings were grating on Nathye¡¯s nerves. He¡¯d started raising an army a few months ago. His plan was to ride gloriously into battle, but instead, he was going in reverse. His army was shrinking, he was dealing with unhappy farmers and traders, and he had to walk through fields that smelled as if someone had died in them. In fact, people have died in them. Did all heroes have to deal with this?
¡°There is another matter, Your Grace,¡± said Edmugh. ¡°Duke Drewill had sent emissaries.¡±
¡°He was bound to hear we are raising an army,¡± Nathye said. ¡°What does he want?¡±
¡°To meet with you, Your Grace.¡±
¡°Very well. I will receive them in the great hall. Tomorrow.¡±
Nathye sat on his high chair in the great hall. He had opted to receive the messengers formally but had not dressed for the occasion, wearing simple pants and a tunic. He was sitting sideways on it, legs dangling from the side, a wine glass in his hand.
Ser Ancis led the two men in, and Nathye guffawed. The duke had sent a diplomat, some elderly men who looked as officious as his own castellan, with thick mustache and nose in the air. The other person coming in was not a man at all, but the boy Georguy Drewill, that discoverer of snot.
The boy was dressed in fineries, a red coat with the Drewill coat of arms on its breast, matching pants, and boots. The look was ruined by the fact that he barely reached Nathye¡¯s navel, and his mousy brown hair had been undone from sleeping against something while waiting for Nathye to receive them.
They approached, and Ser Ances announced, ¡°Lord Georguy and Ser Robert, on behalf of Duke Drewill.¡±
¡°Welcome, cousin,¡± Nathye said, smiling at the boy.
Georguy visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping as he allowed himself a deep breath. ¡°Your Grace,¡± he gave a small bow as appropriate.
¡°Your Grace¡±¡ªa deeper bow from Ser Robert.
¡°To what do I owe the honor?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°The Duke bade us come with two goals, Your Grace. The Duke understands offense might have been given, unintentionally, at your ascension. If so, I would like to offer my apologies, as would young Lord Georguy.¡±
¡°I see,¡± said Nathye, straightening up in his chair, legs on the floor now. He placed the cup on a nearby table, then leaned in. ¡°What offense might that be?¡±
¡°Your Grace, the young lord here might have drunk a bit more than appropriate, celebrating your ascension. He wanted to offer an apology for any, eh, unlordly behavior.¡±
Georguy Drewill bobbed his head, not saying anything.
¡°I understand. We did bring out our father¡¯s best wine that night,¡± said Nathye.
¡°Good,¡± said Ser Robert, his arms that were clasped behind his back now coming to rest by his side. ¡°The second reason my Duke had me come here is the rumors he heard about the army you are raising.¡±
¡°The army?¡± Nathye asked.
¡°Yes, the one we saw when we rode into town.¡±
¡°I had not realized rumors had reached as far as Owdale, Ser Robert.¡±
¡°Your Grace, to put it plainly, the duke would like to know who you plan on fighting.¡±
¡°I see.¡± Nathye stood up from his chair. ¡±There was a conversation at the dinner table the night of my ascension. The young lord here gave me the idea. Come, Georguy, let me show you something.¡± With that, Nathye walked down from the dais and extended his arm to Georguy.
The boy looked to Nathye, then to Ser Robert next to him. Smiling, he walked over to Nathye.
Nathye turned towards a side door. When Ser Robert, Ser Ancis, and the guards made to follow, he said, ¡°Allow my cousin and I a few moments.¡±
Nathye returned to the great hall a few minutes later, carrying a canvas bag. The conversation died down as he climbed back up to his high chair.
¡°Your Grace, where is the young lord?¡± asked Ser Robert.
Nathye held out his hand, forestalling any further pleas. ¡°At dinner that night, young Georguy suggested we raise an army and go fight the mountains. I understand the duke has an older daughter?¡±
¡°Yes, Your Grace. What has that do to with¡ª¡±
Nathye made a throwing motion with the canvas bag, holding onto the material. A head came out of the bag and rolled down the stairs, coming to rest on the floor before the Ser Robert. Both of Georguy¡¯s fingers had been severed and stuffed into his nostrils, the grotesque face looking up at the man.
¡°There, a gift for the duke. I¡¯ve simplified his succession.¡±