[Episode 253570] [Episode 253570]A middle-aged Halfling took a deep breath of the morning air as he walked out of his family’s small cottage, then sighed with contentment. Yes, times were tough and uncertain, what with their new arrogant lord and the ongoing rebellion he had joined — and the new taxes that rebellion required to fund it (though at least the Oakwood lording was safely insulated from armies with other rebelling nobles to the south and west, and church lands to the north) — but the cool, soft mornings of early summer hadn’t changed. To Godhun, they were still as beautiful as ever.
Behind him Cenric and Caedmund, his eldest and youngest sons — and the only two left at home, the oldest because he was the heir and the youngest because he wasn’t yet married — stepped out behind him, with Waeric, the only hired hand they had left, shuffling them.
Godhun suppressed a sigh, as always when his thoughts turned to Waeric. He really should have let him go and kept one of the other two hands he’d let go, but he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. With Waeric’s twisted leg — an orc-wound that hadn’t healed properly and ended his time as a mercenary scout — he simply wouldn’t have been able to find a new position. With his family in Megalos he would have ended up as one more beggar living on the charity of the Church and what alms he could beg from passersby, and Godhun just couldn’t do that to him. So Waeric put in as good a day’s work as he was able, and Godhun pretended that he was pulling his weight instead of a charity case and kept his conscience clear.
Besides, his granddaughters loved the stories. So did his sons.
Enough woolgathering, the day isn’t getting any younger. Godhun turned to the others. “North field again. Waeric, Caedmund, turn the hay we cut yesterday while me and Cenric finish mowing the rest, then —”
He broke off when he realized that the rest weren’t paying attention, looking at something over his shoulder. He turned and felt his good mood evaporating at the sight of two of Lord Brance’s men-at-arms in quilted cloth armor with hands resting on the hilts of their shortswords ambling down the dirt road that passed his cottage, an odd ox-drawn four-wheeled boxy covered cart behind them being driven by another Man riding on the back of the ox. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of where his extra taxes were going. “Caedmund, roof,” he heard Waeric murmur, but ignored his youngest son scrambling away, keeping his focus on the men-at-arms as they turned off the road into his small dirt yard. He stepped between his oldest son and hired hand to stop in front of the two Men and stared up at a hard, grinning face that casually dismissed the three Halflings before looking out across his freehold. “Can I help you?” he asked after a long moment of silence.
The two turned their focus back to him as the ox-cart stopped in the road behind them. “Freeholder Godhun?” the grinning man-at-arms to the left asked.
“That’s me,” he agreed.
“We’re here to collect your tax.”
“What tax?” Godhun asked, mind racing. He’d barely managed to cover the last payment but he’d made it, and the next wasn’t until after the first harvest.
The man-at-arm’s smile broadened. “Why, the new tax announced just a few Sundays back, surely you heard it?”
Godhun’s mind flashed back to the Sunday Mass two and a half weeks past, his heart sinking as he remembered the sheet of paper nailed to the side of the chapel entrance that of course none of the Halflings in their little village could read — and the way their priest had felt ... off ... since that day. He’d blown it off, figuring whatever was bothering Father Edstan was his business, but thinking back now he could recognize the man’s shame. “So how much do I owe?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady, then gaped at the named sum. Were they crazy? “Is Lord Brance crazy?” he demanded, hands curling into fists.
“Oh, the actual tax isn’t that large, it includes the penalty for being late,” the man replied with a shrug.
“And how does Lord Brance think we all are going to pay that?” Godhun asked. “He isn’t going to have a peasant or freeholder left in his lands!”
The grin was back, wider than ever. “Not all of them, only the Halflings living on his lands. As for payment ...” His voice trailed off, and his partner glared at him.
“Rauf, enough,” the other man-at-arms growled, then turned to the Halfling and Godhun felt his premonition of disaster grow as he recognized the man’s shame. “We have orders to take your two granddaughters as payment.”
Godhun stared at him, the world going hazy, a roaring in his ears. “But ... but selling children into slavery requires the consent of their father certified by a priest —” he gasped out.
“Got it right here!” Rauf crowed, slapping the large pouch hanging from his belt ... and the world seemed to freeze as a knife hilt sprouted from the man’s neck.
Even as Rauf took a step back, hands lifting to his neck as blood began to spill down his chin, Godhun heard his hired hand shout, “Caedmund, now!” and his youngest son hurled himself off the roof of their cottage to slam into the other man-at-arm’s chest, knife flashing across the man’s throat, then he was dropping to the ground and rolling away as the man staggered, arterial blood spraying across the yard.
The driver on the ox gaped, then dropped his goad and whirled to throw himself off the ox on the opposite side of the cart only to fall out of sight, another thrown knife hammering hilt-first into the back of his head.
Waeric cursed, then shouted, “Caedmund, Cenric, take him down, fast!”
The two younger Halflings charged forward and disappeared from sight, Caedmund rolling under the ox and Cenric throwing himself over its back. There was the sound of a brief struggle and a bloodcurling shriek of fear and pain that abruptly cut off. A few moments later Cenric and Caedmund walked around the back of the cart, ignoring it as the now-snorting ox started to amble forward. The limping Cenric was spattered with blood, but a glassy-eyed Caedmund was splashed and dripping. Halfway back to his father and Waeric he doubled over, dropped to his knees, and threw up the breakfast he had just eaten.
Waeric shuffled over to the young Halfling and clumsily dropped to one knee to lay a hand on a shoulder, then sighed at the sight of Caedmund’s tear-stained face. “I know, lad, I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have time for this. We won’t be the only family they were here for. You’re the fastest one of us, you need to warn everyone else. Tell them to gather some bedding and as much food as they can carry and meet us at ... the May Day clearing.”
Caedmund jerked a nod, wiped his mouth on his sleeve then gagged and spit at the taste of blood, and straightened. “Right, I can do that,” he said in a shaky voice.
“Good lad, get moving. Your mother will have a change of clothes for you at the clearing.”
Caedmund nodded again, sprang to his feet, and rushed from the yard down the road toward the village.
Waeric accepted Cenric’s help rising to his feet, and nodded toward Rauf’s dead body. “The pouch that motherless bastard slapped, fetch it,” he ordered. Cenric nodded and moved over to the body as he drew his own knife, and Waeric shuffled over to where Godhun was still staring at the bodies, and his open palm cracked across his employer’s face. “Pull yourself together, man, there’s work to be done! You need to take care of your women.”
Godhun’s head rocked to the side with the slap, and he shook his head as the feeling of unreality vanished and the world snapped back into focus. He glanced over at the door of his cottage to find the women of the household clustered there. “Failend, you heard him, bedding and food, a change of clothes for Caedmund, packs for everyone including little Catan and Cingit.” His pale wife swallowed, nodded, and chivvied her daughter-in-law and granddaughters back into the cottage.
As they disappeared from sight Godhun turned back to his son approaching with the large pouch in his hand. Cenric offered it to Waeric, but he shook his head, then nodded toward his employer. “Godhun, you’ll need that to prove to whoever you want to make a complaint to. Make sure you know what’s in there before you offer any formal charges, though. And when Lord Brance’s men catch up with you, go after the foresters first — they’ll be the ones that can track you, with them dead you have a chance of getting away. Once you’ve lost them in the forest, see if you can send someone to around to Photius — the Archbishop is a good man, he’ll help you if he can.”
“Wait, what do you mean, what I’ll do?” Godhun asked. “You’re the one that knows what he’s doing, you should be the one in charge.”
Waeric shook his head and slapped his badly healed leg. “With this leg I’ll never be able to keep up, I’ll just slow you down. I think I’ll just wait here and smoke a pipe, and let the men-at-arms know what I think of their lord when they show up.”
“But ... but you’ll die,” Godhun protested.
Waeric shrugged. “I should have died years ago, Death’s just finally caught up with me. I can promise you one thing though, after they find me you’ll have fewer of them to face yourself. Now go take care of your family.”
Godhun started to turn away, paused, then turned back to offer his hand. “Thank you for giving us a chance,” he said softly.
Waeric clasped the offered hand in a strong grip and smiled. “Thank you for a home these past years,” he said. “God go with you.”
Godhun swallowed and nodded. “And with you,” he replied, then hurried into the cottage.
Waeric hobbled over to a bench beside the door and eased himself down. Godhun was a good man and a natural leader, but he’d never been a soldier, as he’d just proven when he bought the story Waeric had spun. It wouldn’t take him long to recognize the line of bullshit Waeric’d fed him about slowing them down, though — probably when he saw some other family with an ancient granther being pulled along in a handcart. But by then it would be too late to come back for him, and there wouldn’t be any issues with divided leadership. It wasn’t like the situation wasn’t plain enough. Besides, Waeric had had a good run and had friends waiting for him, and maybe more. Leaning back against the cottage wall, he closed his eyes and smiled as he thought of Muireann. He wondered if she’d be waiting for him, or if he’d have to wait to explain to the most beautiful lass he’d ever known why he’d never come home to her as he’d promised. Either way, he knew she’d forgive him after she’d had a chance to rant about what idiots men could be. He was looking forward to it.
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(Posted Sun, 08 Jul 2012 01:15)
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