Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 4, 2014 20:56:10 GMT
Maii IM 1004
The land was dead to look at. The snow had melted but seemingly taken some of the lands peace with it for the trees still stood starkly bare and the wind blew only fitfully, if at all. It was bitterly cold about Deci and if in the city the citizens had felt the seasonal change and seemed to emerge from the Winter woe accordingly the same could not be said for the wilder lands that surrounded it. The north was never a good place for food, its thin, sickly soil was like a stick-thin wastrel begging at the table of its fat and greasy Heartlands cousin. Of all the northern cities Alguz had the best claim to some form of agriculture and that mostly in the form of its sway-bellied and sour eyed goats.
But vegetables were grubbed from the ground and Winter wheat gathered before it bloomed purplish and became inedible. Deci was hardly the wheat basket of the Empire but it did at least have a rural population that regarded the city as its master. Across the land Keys was a bright jewel that sat amongst a land that pretended it was not there, almost all of its food brought in by the Merchants and their sturdy cogs.
Deci too was dependant on the traders and merchants that brought food to the city for a settlement that had four times as many urban as rural citizens was not a city that easily fed itself! It was right that the price of food was high for that way the traders would come. Most brought their wares from the Heartlands and for the most part the cities there did not even know about the crops being so bargained for. In most cases of course the traders just hired a village to come and cut several fields of the wild crops that flourished in abundance in the Heartlands.
But it was cold.
It did feel like early Spring but a Spring that had been stretched too thin, too far and wide as if to cover too great a space. The air was chill and travellers wrapped up warmly when even as close as Eartholme the Winter woollens were being folded and stored away for another year. The roads and lanes were quiet for there was scarce a brigand in the land since Siren had received her pardon. But there were worse things than brigands in the north, things that moved swiftly and savagely things with bright eyes and with wit enough to keep moving so that the likes of Siren would not have the time to track and kill them. Things that were bad enough to want the fight but sly enough to not want it with the one-eyed, grey-haired former Queen of Thieves.
Along the horizon storm clouds rippled but the storm was far from the city, distant above the far mountains that marked the old end of Empire. Even the River Spit had slowed after the initial flooding and the city had shored up its own banks against what remained of its force. So whilst Deci remained as full of life as an orc’s loinrag the further one travelled into the wilds the more sluggish the air seemed to become.
It was as if the land was too exhausted from the long Winter. Or as if it were being made to be so.
Even the bloated crow that seemed to have so much trouble getting off the ground seemed more dirty than normal. It stared at the traveller as he passed by with one dark and one milky white eye but did not rise from the pale ground as it did so. The figure, slightly bulky from the Winter garments he still wore was plainly dressed but the sword he had carried drawn since the crossroads was plainly of some quality. The hard pathway ran over a forested hill and when the trees thinned he could see his destination at last.
The farm was large, similar in many ways to the impressive Heartlands farms where a hundred or more people all lived within the space formed by the barns and longhouse. Like these it was defensible enough since few windows faced outwards and those that did had sturdy shutters for few buildings had glass panes in this part of the word. The gates were shut and even the farm’s animals had been moved into the open space between they and the palisade that surrounded the whole. Smoke curled still from the beacon and there were people on the earthen step behind the upright, sharpened logs.
The traveller came closer, shadowing his eyes as he peered at the visible figures until he recognised a number of battered, wide-brimmed helmets that were plainly former Legion gear. Of attackers there was no sign and half hoping that he would be attacked as he came closer the wanderer walked calmly along the half-mile or so of track that terminated sharply at the gate of the new palisade. By the time he was close enough to smell the resin of the freshly hewn logs a number of faces were staring at him grimly and spear points were angled towards his chest from the gaps above.
“Who are you?” Demanded one young man, a dirty bandage showing within the shadow of his helmet’s brim.
“Jander Sunstar.” The traveller announced and pushed back the thick hood that had hidden his features thus far.
“Open the gate.” Another, older voice ordered and the Governor of Deci was admitted into the first defensive space and thereafter all the way to the blocky house that formed one side of the farm buildings.
*
The arrowhead clinked as it bounced and then came to rest on top of several hundred just like it. The bucket was half full and Jander took a few gulps of the heated ale that had been brought him. It was hardly warm work, arrowheads, but it was what the farm villagers wanted as they had long exhausted their own stocks.
“And sticks don’t do it.” Master Coley explained.”They don’t care about sticks.” Coley was the most important man in the village, as had been his father and grandfather before him. He was getting on a bit himself now but though his flesh hung in thick folds about his neck and the belt about his waist was on its last set of holes there was a countryman’s strength about the man. Coley’s farm made good produce from the soil and when they had been attacked the people had been so practised in what they had to do that by nightfall most of their livestock were inside the palisade and hardly a person remained outside. A few were still there, Et the witch and the mad shepherd Dog Lonely but the others were safe.
“Tell me again what attacked you?” Jander asked and picked up the first hauberk from as nearby pile. Taking up a smaller hammer he dug about in a set of leather bins for what he needed to start repairing the damage to the studded leather.
“It was elves.”
“Elves?” Jander almost laughed but managed to stop himself when he saw that Master Coley was sternly serious.”Elves then, please go on.”
“Not dark ‘uns either. These were green skinned, brown some but we didn’t see many. They came to us and were surprised we think to find us behind walls. They even tried their little magics on our gates and palisade but it’s good Guild work and those boys knew what they were doing. So they stood off and shot at us and we ducked down, then they nearly got over the wall but there’s a lot of us have done our time in one way or another. It weren’t that there were a lot you understand but power rarely cares for number, you see?”
Jander did.
“But we couldn’t get no one out. The beacon was lit so there didn’t seem any reason to send someone out to die. We ain’t seen no elf for days now but it don’t hurt to be careful.”
“Quite so. Any deaths?”
“No, good few knocks but we’re alright. I can’t say what they wanted but I tell you what…”
“Oh?”
“They seemed to having a right fun old time of it when they tried to get to us! Laughing they was.”
Jander pursed his lips as he hammered the rivet into the back of the refolded leather. There were militia on their way and hopefully Jaraxle with them but he had come ahead to get some idea of what was going on. He had not expected elves.
*
Though he had preached when the mood took him the Pale Man did not continue to share his soul with Deci’s gaunt people thereafter. The city was as crowded, gloomy and stinking as he remembered it and since his evil lay not in degradation and self-despoiling he did not understand why others came here at all. Many lived here of course and that was their choice. Even those who had seen other cities returned, scoffing at the softer lives of other cities compared to the hunger and bitterness of the filthy, reeking settlement. It seemed to the Pale Man that not one soul liked another. The pinched, evil faces of the mostly cruel, but sad, citizens stared at him wherever he went and he knew that so many of them would kill him without a second thought if they thought it possible. But the people did not live long by tackling armed travellers when there was always easier meat to be had.
Just walking along and through two streets, an alleyway and a lopsided square the Pale Man had been witness to a bad stabbing and three robberies. He could not see how any Council would tolerate it but then he had become so used to the ever-prying scribes in other settlements that it took him some to notice their absence here. Perhaps the grey little men had other means of tallying the city, he knew that the scribes had their own rites and mysteries but perhaps they also took liberties with the truth.
Yes Master Magistrate crime is dropping. Yes Master Watchmen what a success you are!
Perhaps it was just the Pale Man’s own scathing little spirit that so coloured his thoughts? He didn’t care either way though for he was following the streets to where he believed lay his goal. There were books in the world of course, few after the Night of Levity but the sort of books that had been easily snatched by an eager mob to throw onto the fires were not the kind in which the Pale Man was interested. No, much ritual had been inscribed and typically it was done so by succeeding scholars in the same tome as they used the learning of their forerunners to complete their own studies.
For those interested in the darker arts Bildteve was the best place to look, for it had been the very centre of the Kesselharn Magiocracy. The Pale Man though was being lead onwards to a tome of yet older lineage. Deci was no small city and there were none more confusing or changeable but he did not follow a local guide, sly off hand and swift of knife, but a trail that had been set for him by a godling. The Pale Man took his power where he could find it.
It was in yet another square, a sodden board nearby declared it to be ‘Fly Rigid’ which the Pale Man supposed might be either its name or produce, formed with uneven sides that he came to pause. Three sides were formed by overhanging houses in which, no doubt, several families lived to each floor. The fourth had a darkened shop at its base and more dwellings above. The crowding roofs meant only a three pace square patch of moonlight scarred the sloped street and this the Pale Man avoided from habit. He stepped over an hours-dead hound, nearly slipping on its entrails as he did so and supposed it must be rife with plague for it to not to be in someone’s belly already.
The light behind him now, the Pale Man was scarce able to read what the shop declared as its business. Simply not concerned enough to exert the effort further the travellers scraped some of the local filth from the thick and, in Deci, relatively rare glass panels on the doorways. The glass was poor stuff, thick, green and full of bubbles. Its surface was smeared with some sort of thin grease that actually made it resistant to simple burglary but the Pale Man cared not if his entrance was noticed and so just broke the whole door down with two or three hard kicks.
Inside and the shop was dominated by an old table on which stood several hundred candles. Made from all manner of fats the shop stank only slightly less than the city beyond. The Pale Man drew and hacked with his sword three, four then five times as he felt movement under the table then peered beneath to see the remains of a further dog, this one seemingly long dead but doubtless some sort of ghoul. At least, before it had been cut and broken.
Seeing no books, the Pale Man used the tip of his blade to sweep aside first the candles and then to rip down the drapes that decorated each corner. He was making quite a noise and when a corpulent shape jumped at him from a small doorway he only managed to get in a single good hit before something sharp cracked into his arm. He spun, briefly saw a bright little axe being raised again and kicked out at the shape that held it. It was all happening very fast and the Pale Man pushed hard when his blade met flesh, using both hands to skewer his assailant, twisting the sword to make sure.
“Little bastard.”
Lying on the ground, moving but already dead, the shopkeeper was a fat little fellow dressed in dark grey linen and a tassled cap. Once the sword had been pulled free his mans blood flew out in a wide arc that splashed against the far wall. The Pale Man didn’t care and hardly noticed it stain him redly across the chest. His arm ached but was not broken the wound slighter than it had at first seemed.
*
The Twitch was not much of a river but still a little swollen from the Spring thaw, such as it was, it managed to put a bit of a show for the druid. Llewellyn had followed the river for ten or so miles now, crossing it twice in a few long strides when the bank he followed grew craggy enough to make wet feet seem the better of his options. The druid had come here on the City Spirits advice and he still remembered what the dapper little man had told him in answer to his questions.
Lleweyllin stepped across the stream once more and then stopped when he saw what lay before him. The river emerged from a shallow valley ahead, the slopes of the hills either side being a mile or more in breadth and very shallow. Covering what would otherwise have been nothing other than stony, tired earth though was a thick carpet of brown leafed, and ugly, plants.
Dotted amongst the crops the druid could see the heads and shoulders of people as they worked amongst the ‘Wort but these stopped one by one as each spied their visitor approaching.
*
It was something like kale and something like troll cabbage, but with stalks as thick as Llewellyn’s arm and crinkled leaves that would have provided enough material to make a fine hat. Brown in colour with darker mottles on the upper surfaces it looked better than it tasted and it looked bloody awful. Llewellyn did not so much eat as fight it down his throat.
And there were acres of the stuff.
The people of Two Sanders did not look well and the druid did what he could to rectify a two-year diet of Ralynwort. It clearly had only a slightly higher nutritional value than grass but none of the people had so much as a scar or mark to show past disease. Ulis had been very elusive regarding the old Imperial Herb Gardens, diverting the conversation away from the matter with almost admirable skill. As curative herbs went though Llewellyn seemed to have struck gold.
Presuming it could all be gathered, milled and stored properly.
The druid had no real idea how much was here but judging by the thickness of its growth upon the slopes the ugly plant had no trouble growing here now.
*
Her one good eye was a watery blue and did not show any interest in what it happened to chance upon. It might have once had a twin but even if it survived it was hidden by an old leather patch whose surface had been badly carved to show a hound of some sort. Her hair was short and grey, her skin old but tight across the bones beneath. Lean and elegant in her movements Siren resembled nothing so much as a hound herself, the sort they raced near Bildteve with the long legs and pointed snouts. She dressed warmly in leather and wool and her broadsword looked to be slightly tip-heavy where it curved upwards at the end of the scabbard. A long handled axe rested on the table and a thick-bladed knife nestled in her hand. There were three men with her and none of them were too large, too small or too heavy for the sort of fight that might break out in the Braided Fox.
The ‘Fox was large for a tavern and seemed the place to be for the cities more local personalities. In one corner sat the young rumour-teller Catskinner. By the fire hunched the dirty-pretty woman called Feral Aliss. The Skinners laughed as they diced with one another and new visitors might realise that they were in an honest-to-goodness mercenary Inn. Many thought they had died out since adventurers got religion, or civic pride or titles but thank Deci that one existed that was not pitch-dark and in some godforsaken hole in the ground.
The food was bad but the wine, a Gothiel, much better.
Siren glanced about the room but her gaze did not linger in any one place. Most had heard that she had been fighting with someone called the Robber Baron but few knew the truth of the matter.
By Alan Morgan (CI6V5)