Remittance

By Gary Allen

Flattened by the howling wind, the flowering heather clung to whatever foothold it could find along the sides of the steep valley. A heavy mist sat along Dyrdd Llanon Gwyr's spine, frustrating the crying peregrines wheeling overhead. Pausing beside the valley's raging river, the rider squinted up at the calling raptors for a moment before urging his horse on along the rocky bank. It was not safe for him to tarry here. This was wild country and he had a long way to ride before dusk. As he picked his way through the finger of forest, which squirmed its way up Dyrdd Llanon Gwyr, the rider's right hand was never far from his crossbow. Fortunately his patient mount remembered the way, so despite the difficult trail, one hand was all he needed for the reins. The mottled gray mare negotiated the uneven ground without falter or pause, but neither rider nor horse were happy to be back in this valley once more.

With each passing year the crumbling keep relinquished another stone to the elements. Now, after all these years, it was little more than a shell, a corpse staring with its vacant eyes across the valley that was its grave. Perched supposedly unassailable atop a natural buttress stood the ruin of Farmerien. This keep was built to be the watchtower against the barbarians of the high country and guardian of the new settlements that had sprung up in this place twenty years before. Ignoring the ruins of Farmerien and the phantoms of a dark past they conjured, rider and horse picked their way down the moss covered rock slope to the hollow where the stone stood.

The menhir rose from out of the depression, like a finger warning the sky to take heed. Just as every year before, the rider found new barbarian tokens of feather and bone hung upon the towering pillar of dark granite. The rider regarded the charms with a hollow expression for a moment, remembering the happier days before he had been bound to this yearly pilgrimage of shame and grief. With a bitter sigh the replaced the barbarian charms with a roundel, which sported the once proud crest of the Boar.

Even before the events of recent months there had never been a question of whether the wildblood clans would make a concerted attack against this latest incursion into their territory. That was why a bristling palisade of sharpened logs surrounded the village. It was also the reason why Baron Il Umereste spent a small fortune to ensure his latest keep was built in just one season. Farmerien may have only been one village, but crofts were springing up in the valley below and it would provide the foundation for settlements right up into the high valleys. In time, money would flow from these new fertile pastures, virgin forests and mines. A new Banner would be created and the Il Umereste family would be the rulers of this new demesne. This was the reason the Boar spent so much of his family's wealth fortifying a single village and why the Baron had chosen to move here to lead its garrison of veteran Regulars.

Yet, in spite of the importance of Farmerien, its ruler's ambitions and all their preparations, the attack caught the garrison by surprise.

Winter had its claws into the high country. The first falls of snow had fallen the night before and the wind that whipped at the sentries cut like a knife. Unaccustomed to winter in the Brannog Granar, the Ileshian soldiers stayed close to the burning braziers, every now and then pausing from blowing into the chapped hands to squint into the swirling gloom.

"The barbarians are welcome to this blasted country," a stout Regular named Falenn observed, his billowing breath swept away by the wind. His companion replied with a grunt, eyeing the silhouette of the mountains with eager intensity. Adred was new to the Baron's service and his first moustache was little more than a smudge across his upper lip. He wanted the barbarians to come, because he craved the battle glory. Falenn shook his head and offered a silent prayer. He asked that gods to keep Adred alive until he grew out of the cocksure confidence of youth. The surety shared by all new soldiers, they believed death was a thing that happened to others. The four other Regulars shivered in the cloaks, unable to do more than smirk at Adred's youthful enthusiasm.

Unseen by any of them, groups of crouched shadows crossed the steep spur above the village. The figures regrouped in the cover of the trees before descending towards the palisade.

"The Boar believes otherwise," Brele observed of their Baron and his well known view of the wildbloods. "He'll do whatever it takes to keep this blasted place and to the hells with whatever claim the barbarians may have to this land." While the veteran spoke none of the Regulars would look each other in the eye. Only Adred was impervious to the disquieting truth the broad shouldered veteran had conjured up. None of them could shake the feeling that they were involved in something less than honorable or that the barbarians were justified in their anger.

It was Falenn who broke the uncomfortable silence, "That's the privilege of rank. We don't have to worry who has the better claims to this. We just have to follow our orders." The sergeant's men agreed with obvious relief, thanking the gods they were nothing more than simple soldiers. Whether or not Carment Il Umereste's actions in the high country were honorable, their fealty to the Boar meant no blame could be held against them for what was done here. Though the minds of his men were set at ease, Falenn struggled with troubling doubts. This sort of self-reflection was not something he was accustomed to. He was a fighting man, not given to much thinking. Yet unbidden, like thieves stealing past the defenses of his mind, the doubts came and would not be denied. With a shrug Falenn admitted to himself wrong was being done here, but then who would say a cross word about anything done to the wildbloods?

The Weard warriors of the Retafel arec crept without a sound through the forest. They advanced in single file toward the palisade, almost invisible in the gloom and snow. This night the raiding party was led by a warrior from another arec. Madred's chest and throat sported ghastly scars given to him by the lowlanders when they burnt down his home and butchered his people. The Weard way was to consider such a disgraced man already dead. He should have been left to die amongst the bodies of his family and neighbors. Yet times were different in the Brannog Granar. More and more arecs were being destroyed by the lowlanders, either directly by the sword or because their farms and livestock were consuming the best lands for themselves. The Weard had to change their ancient ways or be swept away. So the Retafel had first healed and then accepted Madred as one of their own. Even before the attack upon his arec, Madred had been known as a warrior without peer and a cunning tactician. Now he burned with hatred for the lowlanders and a thirst for vengeance that could not be sated. While the older and calmer members of the Retafel feared him, the younger warriors considered Madred spirit-touched and their leader.

When Madred gave a grim-faced nod, the Weard warriors formed a line. Each of the crouching warriors selected a lowlander from amongst those sentries shivering beside the fires and lifted their spears.

"How long until we're relieved by the next watch," Brele complained with a sniff. Though he sympathized, Falenn knew the worst of the winter was still ahead of them and they were going to have to grow accustomed to watches stood in the wind and snow.

"If it's too cold for you cub, then…" the Sergeant's chiding response was cut short by a shrieked cry from the trees beyond the palisade. The Regulars were still struggling to draw their icy swords and lift their shields when the whistling clutch of spears fell upon them.

Caught by surprise, the Sergeant took a barbed spear through the thigh and collapsed backward with a pained grunt. Gaping in wide-eyed shock, Adred looked down at Falenn's white face and the stain of blood blossoming under the impaled Sergeant. When the enemy shrieked again and rushed the palisade, Adred recovered his wits.

"Ware the wall!" the young man shouted for the sake of the garrison in the keep. With a wrench Adred managed to at last draw his icy longsword. Thinking only of protecting his wounded mentor until reinforcements came from the keep, the young Regular stepped in front of the panting Falenn. "Ware the…" Adred started to shout again but instead choked into the face of a Weard woman. She was pretty in a wild way, with bones and feathers platted into her thick mane of red hair. With a confused frown Adred looked down at the spear she had thrust into his gut. He choked once on a rising tide of blood before crumpling at her feet.

The stench of burnt thatch and wood assaulted the senses. What was worse was the sickly sweet cooked-meat smell everyone did their best not to identify. The cloaked rider moved through the confusion of Farmerien, only pausing long enough to work around the knots of villagers who were either looking on in blank-faced shock or screaming their grief for all to hear. Those of the Baron's men who were helping with the task of rebuilding what the barbarians had burnt and smashed spared only a glance for the passing rider. The Regulars were too numbed by exhaustion and grief to be curious about the stranger riding through their midst.

Pasty and unsteady on his wounded leg, Falenn took a moment to rest against the ruin of the blacksmith's forge. The soul-weary Sergeant eyed the approaching rider with tired resignation. Given the stranger's cloak and roundel, the Sergeant judged that this was some sort of emissary of the Duke's court. Falenn's mouth twitched with irritation. Another noble stripling was not what they needed. If this scene was not to be repeated over and over they needed Regulars and Guardsmen, and a good number of them. Instead of troops this rider did not even appear to be armed and there was no sign of an honor guard in attendance. To be unarmed in the high country was madness, and to come to Farmerien without bringing aid was pointless, so Falenn judged the stranger a fool. However, like a good soldier he bobbed his head in appropriate greeting for a noble and person of obvious importance. The rider's horse danced before Falenn, made skittish by the burnt smells and the anguished mood in the smashed village. The Sergeant settled the horse with a pat, before looking up at the hooded rider who was silhouetted against the bright sky. Just as he had every moment during the last three days, the campaigner was haunted by the memory of Adred's death. There had been too much death in this cursed place and the noble's indifference to the danger all around them irked the Sergeant.

Without preamble, Falenn snapped, "As you can see this is not the best time to be in the high country without an armed guard, my lord." The rider stiffened, but the Sergeant did not offer an apology for his impertinence. In truth he was indifferent to the consequences if this idiot noble decided to take offence. The image of Adred skewered before his eyes made everything seem unimportant somehow. Too many good men… most of them little more than boys really, had lost their lives up here and all for foolish noble pride. Yet it seemed the rider was not offended. Twisting to look back down the path of destruction from the breach in palisade to the keep, the stranger sighed.

She lowered her head with a toss of her head, "What happened here?" Falenn gaped in surprise at the sound of the saddened noble's voice. She was a striking young woman with bright blue eyes, freckles and flame red hair that spoke of an ancestry other than Ileshian. The noblewoman weighed the Sergeant's silent surprise for a moment before dismissing it with an irritated frown. "My name's Daria Erin Padred, here on the Duke's business."

In the mess of the aftermath of the Weard attack there was no way a proper welcome could be summoned, so Falenn sent word hurrying ahead before escorting his Grace's emissary to the keep. Her mood softening somewhat, the Daria answered the Sergeant's earlier rebuke, "I have three honor guards with me. They are helping your men repair the palisade." Falenn managed a nod, but could not muster the wits to speak. Not only was this noblewoman a delicate beauty, if his eyes did not deceive him she was Kral. The last Kral King may have been vanquished more than a decade before and the headstrong Kral made subjects of Ilesh, but many of their nobles continued to resist Ileshian rule. Few Kral had retained their title or lands. So why was a Kral maiden playing the part of the Duke's emissary? It made no sense to Falenn, who had been raised like most Ileshians to think of the Kral as lazy, treacherous and dim witted. He wondered whether this could be some sort of trick. Perhaps reading his questions on hisface, the noble woman's mood darkened again. "I asked you a question, Sergeant," she snapped, her eyes blazing. Deciding it was not his place to judge the noblewoman's authenticity, Falenn mumbled an apology.

"Three nights ago the Weard mounted a raid against us," he managed.

Her eyes still blazing, the Kral noblewoman looked between Falenn and the destruction, "I think they managed somewhat more than that."

"They did at that…" the Sergeant sighed. "It was in reprisal you see," he explained, immediately regretting his slip. The emissary held the red-faced Regular with her probing gaze for a moment before nodding in understanding. She swung down from the saddle with the ease of someone raised with horses since they could walk. Only then did Falenn realize rather than a dress, the Daria was wearing Kral trousers called bracae and there was a dirk within the folds of her kirtle.

Without a backward glance the emissary strode into the keep, "I wish to speak with Baron Il Umereste."

Ribbons of energy snaked through the grove, illuminating the eerie mist with their passing. This time Garafel paid the spectacle no mind, as he stood waiting, yew wand in hand. In time the soothsayer's call into the Etheric was answered by the arrival of a majestic figure in the grove. The Gwarchylld's antlers were wider than a man's reach and he towered above the awed Weard's mental form. Naked except for the staff he held, the muscled spirit regarded Garafel with his limpid eyes.

"What must we do?" the soothsayer asked of the Gwarchylld. Rather than answering, the spirit sighed and turned, but when the Deer strode back into the mist that is the hedge between worlds a flight of peregrine leapt from the spot where he disappeared.

The warriors crammed within the earthen darkness of the butlaph stopped their murmuring when Garafeld his eyes. While the soothsayer gulped from the skin of water he was offered, they watched him in a mixture of fear and expectant awe. The bright fire illuminated Garafel's hawkish features making him seem even more fierce and strange than usual. It seemed the peaty smoke curled about him drawn to his presence just like the spirits they knew accompanied him wherever he went. With some effort the soothsayer turned to where Madred sat with his men.

"It seems at last the time has come for a reckoning," Garafel croaked unable to conceal how weakened his foray into the land of dreams and death had left him. The firelight lit Madred's scars making him seem to burn anew. When he saw the jubilation of the warriors and their adopted leader the soothsayer felt a chill around his heart. What price would the spirits demand for this service? How much blood would be required to make amends for their failures? Would anything be left when the spear was at last laid aside?

Never a man to mince around and hide his feelings, the Baron regarded the slight woman kneeling in front of the honor table with an exasperated scowl.

"Yes, my thanks good Daria, I am well," was his stiff reply to her formal inquiry. He considered for a moment not asking after her health as the ritual forms required. After all this was his demesne and she was a Kral, but when he saw his Steward's alarmed expression, Carment sighed and swallowed his pride. "I trust the Daria is well?" Rather than listen to her polite response, the Baron motioned for the food to be served and another place at the table to be laid.

Carment did his best to ignore the Kral witch during the evening meal, but his gaze kept being drawn to where she sat. While she was attractive, for a Kral, her presence presented problems and questions that he could do without. Once the servants and the dirty dishes were gone, the Kral had the hide to start questioning him. At first the Baron grunted some non-committal responses, determined to make it clear what he thought of her, the Kral in general, and most of all her impertinent questions. For her part, the emissary stared back with a neutral expression, apparently willing to wait the red-faced Ileshian noble out. On one hand, the large roundel she wore on her breast proclaimed her a mere Daria, a junior noble rank. Yet there was no denying the signet ring she wore or the chains of office around her slender neck; this thin strip of a Kral was indeed the Duke's emissary. A fact reinforced by the presence of three of the famous Ducal Guard, standing silent but deadly watch behind the self-assured noblewoman. The insult, because an insult was how Carment saw it, galled him to the core. Made even more belligerent by his stung pride, the Baron decided to be difficult.

"I don't understand your meaning," Carment sneered with an offhanded gesture. "Dame…?"

Well aware of the Baron's game, the emissary replied with a weary smile, "Daria Erin Padred." Faced with Carment's delight at scoring some incomprehensible point over her, she sighed. "I'm sorry you have trouble following my question. Perhaps I need to speak slower." Before the outraged Baron or his terrified Steward could reply, Erin spoke over him with a sharp edge to her cool tone, "Farmerien was attacked. Your garrison smashed and your vassals left terrified. I asked why?"

"The wildbloods never stormed the keep," Carment shot back. For all his apparent petulance, the Baron was watching the Kral noblewoman for a sign she had seen through his attempt to redirect her attention.

Erin conceded the point with a shrug, "Perhaps not this time."

"Nor will they ever," the Baron snarled. "They'll have no more luck against Ileshian engineering than the Kral did." He said the last with a smug smile and sat back. "Once Thane Ul Madrenn sends his troops we will be able to further fortify the area. Then the farmers and craftsmen will find their all the nerve they need. Within another year and there'll be freeholding farms all along this valley."

Though she refused to allow Carment to see he had wounded her, Daria Padred's eyes blazed at the insult to her father's people. Yet she said not one word in defense of the Kral. The simple truth was, Carment was right. Despite all their valor and fierceness in battle, the Kral had no answer for the mighty Ileshian fortifications, and their warbands proved no match for the High King's professional army. But that was the past. In these difficult times, the Duke could ill afford to engage the highland barbarians in the same kind of protracted guerilla war the Ileshians had been forced to wage with the Kral.

Instead of rising to the bait, Erin countered with an icy smile, "It is the question of the Ul Madrenn troops I am here to resolve."

"What?" the Boar gasped. Reading Erin's expression, he paled, "I am Coren Ul Madrenn's vassal. Would the Duke interfere in my Thane lending me aid?" the Baron blustered, his sudden horror plain to read on his white face.

The Daria waved Carment's protest aside, "You embarked upon this expedition even though you were warned his Grace did not support it. You built upon lands you knew the wildbloods claimed, and now you expect the Duchy to bail you out of the fine mess you have gotten us all into."

"It's a matter of honor… the lands here are of strategic significance. If the Duke was not being advised by sniveling cowards he would see the value in what we're doing," the Baron bellowed. The outburst made him feel better and he enjoyed the moment of blasting the pretty young noblewoman. Yet his outrage was not feigned. Without aid from the Thane their difficult situation here could easily turn hopeless. "You do not understand what it is we're doing here."

Erin nodded slowly, as though conceding something, but there was steel in her reply, "You have the right of that, my lord. I intend to rectify that before I leave." Though she was dwarfed by the battle hardened Baron, Erin still knocked the wind out of his bluster when she poked a finger in his direction, "And so there's no confusion… it is I who will be advising his Grace whether to permit your Thane to send more troops up here."

The bird hovered against the burning dusk, a floating silhouette against the brilliant colors of the setting sun. Troubled by nagging worries that would not let him be, Falenn looked askance at Udret. With one fluid gesture the aging pathfinder drew against his longbow, his leathery face creased with concentration. When the last edge of the burning sun slid behind the peaks the floating peregrine seemed to be haloed with a brilliant blue corona. Trial and error had taught them that this was the only moment at which the infernal birds were vulnerable. Despite his great skill, Udret loosed a moment too late. His shot whistled through empty air, the bird and its eldritch light gone with the last rays of the setting sun. In spite of himself, the Sergeant blew out a relieved breath. Though no one in Farmerien understood the nightly phenomena, Falenn was beginning to suspect they were somehow related to the increasingly frantic barbarian attacks.

"Balath's hairy balls!" the pathfinder snapped, furious with the empty space into which the bird had vanished.

Though he cursed and complained with the other soldiers gathered atop the keep's roof, Falenn found himself wondering whether killing more of the birds would not be impious in some way. "They're wildbloods," he told himself in a voice thick with emotion and doubt.

The mason's eyes darted between Erin and the towering pale-haired Guardsmen at her shoulder. He pursed his cracked lips, the nervous gesture saying a great deal to the Daria.

"What do you expect, they're wildbloods," the freeman pronounced. "They believe this land belongs to them, so they're fighting for it. Don't have the sense to pack up and leave or offer a bended knee in the High King's name." The words sounded rehearsed to Erin's ear. The Daria frowned over the mason's obvious disquiet until she glanced up at the keep's gate and saw the Baron and his steward there watching where the mason could see. It seemed as though the entire village had been drilled in what to say to her. How could she hope to get to the bottom of what was happening up here without any cooperation?

Acting on a hunch, the emissary tried a different tack, "When did the raids start?"

Caught by surprise the mason pondered the question with a worried frown, "Can't say I remember the date."

"Roughly will do," she insisted.

After flashing a troubled glance across the distance to where Carment stood, the mason sighed, "Oh, not until a couple of months back."

"Long after the keep was built," the Kral noblewoman mused aloud. Why would the Weard wait until their enemy had a stronghold before launching their raids? Perhaps it was because the raids had nothing to do with resisting the settlement, but was about something else entirely. When the mason flushed an embarrassed scarlet Erin was sure she had ferreted out a clue to something significant.

The emissary and her escort wandered across the compound. Erin looked at the bustling villagers without really seeing the continuing repair work. Her mind turned over the little she was gleaning from the Baron's vassals, wondering what it all added up to. So caught up was Erin in her thoughts that she was not really aware of the Ileshian knights at her back until their leader, a giant of a man named Squire Badren Gadrerre spoke.

"Carment has done somewhat to incite the barbarians," Squire Gadrerre pronounced with a ponderous frown. Erin glanced at the leader of her Ileshian guard. Badren was a Guardsman of some renown and with his brilliant blue eyes and blonde hair he could not have been any more Ileshian. The Daria wondered whether the giant of a knight had been assigned to her to placate the Duke's vassals by counterbalancing her Kral looks. It was certainly not for his wits or instincts. Yet Badren was dependable and astute in his way, so Erin was pleased of his company.

She nodded and as they approached the tavern she lowered her voice lest they were overheard, "I'd say the Baron almost certainly has done something to worsen the situation here… more than he's prepared to tell."

"Perhaps… but in the end the barbarians causing the trouble are wildbloods and enemies of Ilesh," Badren frowned back.

Erin sighed, "True enough, but his Grace doesn't need the borderlands stirred up and burning. The Weard can be an intractable enemy, and right now the Duchy has other more pressing concerns to deal with." The Kral noblewoman watched the broad knight struggle with this concept. Ileshian soldiers were all the same; professional, dependable and disciplined, but limited in their view of the world. Realizing that the Squire could not understand, the Daria decided on a different approach, "Carment is defying the Duke by being here. Now he's compounding his defiance by being duplicitous and inciting trouble somehow."

"His Grace cannot afford traitors," Badren pronounced with a worried expression.

Erin regarded her protector, caught between amusement and her own worries, "Just so."

With a disgusted snarl Madred sent the smooth stone skipping across the water. Unmoved by the warrior's display of frustrated emotion, Garafel stared out across the moonlit lake.

The warrior sank to his knees upon the dark sand shore, "I cannot do what you ask."

"I ask nothing of you," the soothsayer pronounced without turning. While Madred's breaths came as explosions of feeling, Garafel's exhaled clouds were slow and measured.

"Their stone tent is too strong," the shaggy haired warrior complained. He was incensed by the thought of his adopted arec forced from the lands were the ashes of their ancestors had been scattered, but both of them knew the main source of his frustration was his unquenched thirst for vengeance. Madred was in love with death, and Garafel feared where this adopted son would lead their arec. Yet in spite of his fears, the soothsayer knew he would not denounce Madred. The crimes of the lowlanders were too much to bear. The Retafel had survived the Kumal, the Jahd and even raids by the cursed Nolodaer. Yet in the end it would be lowlanders, who were deaf to the Mother's voice, who would break them.

At last Garafel turned to eye the sweating and scarred warrior with obvious disapproval, "The lowlanders are thieves and nightly they slay the Maroot without pause. They taunt us."

"They cannot be beaten," Madred snarled back. When the impetuous warrior turned to go, the soothsayer stopped him with a restraining hand against the chest. Though the much larger warrior tried to brush the old man aside, the spirits swarmed around Garafel and lent him their aid with a rush of elemental force. Instead of walking by, Madred found himself held in place by the soothsayer's iron grip. Garafel shamed the flushed warrior with a look of reproach, "There's a way… if you are strong enough."

The Baron's hall was swollen to the rafters with bodies and forced cheer. The serving women managed brave smiles for the soldiers and villagers they served, but no one was fooled and everyone was terrified. The shadow of doom was palpable, and though Erin would have never guessed it, a good number of the Baron's men took a little comfort from her presence. The madness in Farmerien was a sickness, and there were some who hoped the Kral noblewoman might somehow offer a cure.

"They try to drown their guilt," Badren pronounced of the throng within the Baron's hall. Despite the fact it seemed danger was all around them the Ileshian knight was unable to hide the pleased grin which split his freckled face when Erin nodded a confirmation. Seated at one end of the honor table, which stood upon a dais above everyone else, the Daria's gaze wandered over the Baron's men, wondering what awful truth was plaguing Farmerien. She brushed a lock of her rebellious hair away from her hazel eyes and frowned in annoyance. Since she was a young lass her hair had seemed to have a mind of its own, troubling the Kral noblewoman at the most inopportune of times and making her feel like a child.

Feeling inadequate to the task assigned her, Erin sighed, "We still know nothing of what is happening here." She was about to rise from her place at the table of honor and risk the drunken barbs of her host, when a ruckus from outside the hall stopped her.

The hall exploded with shouted curses when a white-haired barbarian was dragged in by two of the Baron's men. Under his thick fur cloak the old man wore shirt and trousers, brightly colored and typical of the Weard. Bones, feathers and carved pieces of wood were weaved into the barbarian's long snowy hair, and his hands were dyed blue. Without a struggle the old man allowed himself to be led to the honor table.

Burning with triumph, the Baron regarded the soothsayer with a cold sneer. Carment's men howled and jeered until the Baron silenced them with a wave. For all that the Weard was one unarmed old man, Erin's blood ran cold when Garafel's only reaction to the angry mob was to smooth his clothes and step up to the honor table with an expression of careful indifference.

"Be ready," the Daria warned Badren and her other guards, before stepping up alongside the Baron. Even though Carment answered her arrival with a black look, he knew it was the right of the Duke's emissary, so said nothing. What he didn't know was Erin understood enough of the highland barbarians to know something strange was afoot.

Sleet swirled in the icy wind before settling on the frosty ground and the Weard who crouched in the shadows under the trees. The night and weather concealed the warriors from the village's sentries, who despite the recent attack, were too cold and tired to look far beyond the palisade.

Though snow piled upon their hair and shoulders, the Weard waited in silence. They still seethed from having watched a squad of the Baron's riders drag in their bound soothsayer. Even now, the mere thought made them grip their weapons tighter. A rage that was more desperate because now the exhausted old man was inside the impenetrable keep.

"He allowed them to catch him," a grim-faced Madred reminded them for the umpteenth time.

"Close the door, damn you!" the Baron snarled, whirling around to berate the fool who was disturbing him and risking attracting the attention of the infernal Kral bitch. Thankful for Badren and his men standing behind her, Erin met Carment's anger with a level expression.

When the Baron said nothing, the slender Emissary motioned to the grizzly trapper standing amongst her escort, "I thought you might have use of a translator." To his credit, Carment managed a wry smile for Erin and her pet knights. Both of them knew he had sent one of his men to find the trapper. She had seized the excuse to intrude by insisting on escorting the trapper here. Odrel was one of the few people in these parts who could speak more than a few words of the Weard's infernal language. Behind his smile, Carment seethed and considered ordering Erin out, but the Emissary's eyes told the Boar it would be a waste of time. Silently vowing to punish the guards who had let her into his study, the Baron shrugged and turned to eye the barbarian.

One look at the bloodied and bruised prisoner confirmed for Erin that up until her arrival the Baron had been far more interested in beating the Weard than interrogating him. Erin was furious, but was well aware she could ill afford to push Carment too far in his own home. She suspected if he were cornered, the Baron would not hesitate to kill her and her men to conceal the truth; whatever that might be. After all they were well beyond help here out beyond the frontier. Of course, the very real threat the Duke would avenge her death with a righteous rage and burn Carment's new holding to the ground would keep them safe, as long as she did not push the Baron too hard.

While there was no doubting the white-haired prisoner was old, his sinewy body was anything but feeble. Eying the Baron and his men with a steady gaze, the Weard seemed more thoughtful than afraid. Though Carment and his men seemed uninterested in their prisoner's calm resolve, Erin began to wonder just whom they were dealing with, and whether the Weard's capture had been his own idea.

"Answer his lordship's question, dog!" Brele snarled as he slapped the Weard. Still the old man said nothing, though he did flinch as he wiped the blood from his lip. The beefy Regular wanted to avenge himself on the barbarian, settle accounts for each of his dead comrades, but now that the Kral was here with her tamed knights Brele knew that was not going to happen.

Struggling with her disgust, Erin turned to where Carment stood looking on, "Perhaps the translator would have more luck." The Baron nodded with a guarded expression and motioned for a reluctant Brele to let the trapper past.

Odrel spoke to the bloodied Weard for a few moments, but the old man seemed to stare through him. When the trapper turned to the Baron and Daria with a helpless shrug, Erin could practically taste Carment's relief.

"Ask him why he is here," she insisted at the same time wondering how far Carment would be prepared to let her go. At first the Weard did not react, but when Odrel repeated the question again, old man blinked and seemed to see the trapper for the first time. When he spoke it seemed his voice came from a great distance. Odrel frowned, whether because he was struggling with the translation or because he was troubled, Erin could not tell.

"To settle accounts," Odrel at last translated.

Even hardened warriors accustomed to life in the high country have their limits. Shivering in the dark, the Weard began to doubt. What if the lowlanders had summarily executed Garafel? What if the old man was too weak? None of them needed to say aloud what they were all thinking; if they failed here many of them would not survive the trek back home through the snow. Worst of all their arec would be lost, just as Madred's had been.

"Perhaps the spirits have abandoned us," Kere, youngest of the crouching warriors, observed. Madred was about to answer the young woman with a gruff rebuke when a click echoed through the night from the direction of the palisade's gate. Straining their necks to see, the Weard watched with widening expressions as the gate swung a few feet outward, revealing two sentries slumped unconscious within. Floating in theng was a willow-the-wisp. It seemed the other sentries were yet to notice Garafel's magic at work, but Madred knew that would not last. Without a sound he rushed from the snow-decked forest toward the gate, aware of the other warriors rushing after him toward the ghostly light.

"What?" Erin asked with an increasing sense of dread. Once more the Weard seemed oblivious of Odred's questioning, staring straight through them all with a vacant expression. Old lore and half-remembered legends about sorcerers and enchanted jewels prickled at the edge of the Daria's mind, warning her of danger.

Codre snorted, "Daft old barbarian." The Baron nodded his agreement, but his expression was troubled. "Do you understand anything of this?" Erin demanded angrily of Carment, until she saw his dangerous expression and reigned in her temper. "My apologies, my lord, but this all seems cursed strange."

The Baron's eyes flashed, but he shook his head, "I have no idea at all what this is all about." It seemed he was about to say more when the alarm bell began to toll.

The sentries out in the courtyard never had a chance. To a man they didn't even manage a warning cry for their comrades guarding the keep's entrance. Spears flew from the dark, impaling five of the surprised soldiers. While the survivors gaped at their comrades and fumbled with their swords, the Weard swept out of the night and cut them down like a scythe through wheat.

The Weard left the defenseless village unmolested. Garafel's instruction had been clear; the warriors were not to fire the village or take retribution on the lowlanders sleeping in their homes. Instead Madred led his grim-faced warriors between the oblivious houses towards the keep. Before the alarm bell at last began to toll the Weard were already well inside and rushing through the bowels of the sleepy keep. A ghostly light bobbed ahead of them, guiding them to their goal.

Erin did not see the blow. She was still frowning in bewildered shock at the alarm when Badren shoved her to one side and caught Carment's sword thrust with his own blade. Her first thought was that the Baron had attacked her, before she realized the Weard had been Carment's intended victim. It seemed she had merely been in the way. For an instant the Emissary stared at Badren and Carment in baffled surprise, until she saw Codre and the Baron's men reach for their swords. Falenn, who had been loitering unseen at the back of the chamber snarled for Codre and the other Regulars not to bare steel. With a warning cry for her other guards, Erin pulled her dirk and held it tight up under the pallid Baron's chin.

"What's going on?" she demanded in a tremulous voice, while the alarm drum continued to beat out its urgent warning. Carment's only answer was a sneer. They both knew she was confused and terrified. Struggling with her rising panic, Erin pressed her long knife tighter into the Baron's neck drawing blood and a grunt of pain from Carment. "Tell me."

Falenn regarded the Kral who held his lord at knife point with a pained expression, "It's reprisal."

"It's a rescue," Odred answered instead, translating the Weard's whispered words. No less confused than the Emissary, the Baron forgot the dirk at his throat and turned to where the barbarian and trapper stood.

The study door crashed inwards, and both the Baron and Daria's men turned, ready to answer the expected attack. Instead of screaming Weard warriors, they were confronted with Carment's white-faced steward.

"They've attacked the treasury," the senior attendant pronounced, only then seeing the drawn weapons and the knife at the Baron's throat.

Carment choked, "They're trying to steal the emerald!"

"Steal back, you mean," Falenn shot back, earning a black look from the Baron.

"We come only for our spirit stone," Garafel added, surprising them all by speaking in accented Ileshian.

In one hand Madred held the precious stone, which pulsed with mystical energy, the other he used to staunch the deep slash across his thigh. The rest of the raiding party were pressed against the walls, trembling and sweating from the battle they had fought to win entry to this chamber. They had achieved their mission and reached the stone, but now they were trapped. Worse yet, the guiding light was gone, meaning Garafel was more than likely dead.

Tears ran down Kere's pretty face, but Madred could offer no comfort, "We'll teach them a lesson before we go to join the soothsayer with the Mother, " he promised. The young woman managed a brave nod. Now that it was over, all of the Weard exchanged looks of understanding. Though they had failed they were proud of what they had achieved and glad to have such fine companions for the journey to the afterlife.

Hearing someone outside the treasury's door, Madred lifted his spear, expecting a rush of lowlanders to come pouring inside. To the sweating warrior's surprise, the Baron stepped into the chamber, his sword still in its scabbard. Close behind the red-faced Ileshian was a slender Kral with a knife at the Baron's back. Believing it some sort of trick, Madred lifted his spear.

"Do not," Garafel ordered Madred and the others as he stepped in after the strange pair.

"Release me!" Carment spat, but Erin shoved him forward so he was facing the tense group of Weard warriors. A glance over her shoulder confirmed Badren and her other two escorts were standing in the doorway, sword drawn. The Baron's men were unlikely to attack, knowing their lord had a dirk at his back, but the Daria wasn't willing to wager her life on commonsense against Ileshian bloodlust.

Madred regarded the red-faced Baron and the slender woman at his back with a narrowed gaze, "What is all this?" he demanded. "This is a trick." The Ileshians knights guarding the door and the tense Weard warriors exchanged looks of distrust and fear.

With a sigh Garafel interposed himself between the warriors and the Baron, "Just listen." The soothsayer turned to Erin and switched to Ileshian when he spoke again. "We are here. We will listen to what you have to say." Now that she was here, having acted on her instincts and trusting their lives to lawless barbarians, the Emissary felt her confidence falter. What if she was wrong? What if she had failed the Duke and proved every wrong word said about the Kral. While Erin stood struggling with her problems, her eyes were drawn to where Falenn stood outside the door. The Sergeant was watching her with an expression of hope and approval. Garafel coughed and when she looked his way again the old man smiled into her troubled face and nodded. There was dried blood in his platted hair and his face was battered and bruised, but there was nothing but kindness in the soothsayer's eyes. "Trust."

"What has been happening here?" she asked without preamble.

The soothsayer considered her for a moment before answering, "The Baron desecrated one of our holy places. He stole our Spirit Stone and each night tries to kill the Maroot who are drawn to the stone." While Garafel spoke Madred lifted the glowing emerald.

"Barbarian lies!" Carment snarled, whipping around knocking the knife from Erin's hand. "You are the cause of this," he spat, pointing at both the Weard and the Emissary. "To me!" the Baron snarled as he threw himself onto the surprised Daria.

The room became a confused mess as the Baron's men rushed into the room. Badren and Erin's other escorts could do little against the weight of numbers, until Madred and the Weard threw themselves into the fray.

"To the Emissary," the tall Ileshian shouted, barely deflecting a blow from one of the Baron's swearing Regulars.

Struggling under Carment, Erin shook her head, "No, protect the old man," she gasped.

The Baron was beyond rational thought. All he wanted was the satisfaction of choking the life from the interfering Kral bitch. Though she squirmed and clawed at his hands, Carment was too heavy for Erin. Her men were struggling alongside the barbarians, trying to hold at bay his men, and the Baron laughed into the terrified Daria's gasping face. Carment never saw the soldier who jostled him from behind, never knew that it was Falenn trying to save his lord from further dishonor. Carment fell forward, and before he could steady himself, Erin had shoved her way free. The Baron grabbed after her and came face to face with a glowering Madred. The Weard's scars seem to burn anew in the flickering torchlight. He lifted his knife and sprang at Carment.

"No!" Erin choked, jumping between the two men and stopping Madred. If the Baron was killed the Ileshian army would raze the high country. Whatever crimes the Boar had committed here, his death would rouse the righteous rage of even the Duke. He had to be made to answer his crimes. Though he was furious, Madred allowed Erin to stay his hand. She started to say something when the Baron pulled his own knife and lunged at Madred. Whether she saw the danger mirrored in Madred's eyes or heard the coming attack, no one ever knew. Whatever the reason, Erin spun around and stopped Carment from striking Madred, his blow driving through her ribs instead. The Emissary made a strangled noise and gaped into the Baron's horrified expression. Blood welled over the slender Kral's lip and she slumped back into Madred and Badren.

While the Weard and Ileshian knight shouted for a chirurgeon, Falenn glared at his trembling lord, "What have you done?"

"Attacked an unarmed woman," Falenn sighed up towards the ruined keep of Farmerien, seeing those dark days again as though they were only yesterday. "Killed his Grace's Emissary and disgraced his family… all to hide his crimes." The Duke's punishment had been harsh, stripping the Boar family of much of their wealth and influence. For their part the Weard had demanded that each year the Boar renew its pledge of treaty and remittance with a display of regret. All those years ago Falenn had volunteered for the yearly duty. The old veteran shook his head and stared at the Boar roundel he had placed upon the menhir.

The Weard emerged from the mist and gathered in a circle around the grieving Regular. Falenn eyed the barbarians and scarred, gray-haired warrior who was their leader. "So I come each year to renew the treaty Erin's death forged," he told the silent Weard witnesses. Aware now of the spirits also gathered around, Falenn wept as he smiled at the shades of Adred and the others. "And honor those who died for the peace."

About the Author.

Back to the top of this page.