“That hole broke the back of two empires. To want to venture there, and then enter it? Foolishness! And you’ll regret it! Mark it—you’ll regret it well.” The man’s unshaven chin jutted with the strength of his words. His eyes flashed, and he pulled another mouthful from his gourd.
His
audience expected that reaction, of course.
Angry, spiteful, and a little afraid, the man spoke the truth. That hole did break the back of two
empires. It also swallowed a city—the
city that his ancestors called home. The
assembled group was fairly certain that the old man’s anger was born more of
that unspoken tragedy than of the spoken pair.
Would he part with the information they sought? That was their only concern.
“What can
you tell us of the path?” Kolredd asked
the question, trying to hide the impatience that even he could hear creeping
into his voice. He was a large man,
broad-shouldered, and imposing to most, but his size didn’t seem to bother the
old man at all.
“The path? Bah!
That’s why you’ve come? Mark
it—the path is death!” The old drunk’s voice
rose until his words echoed from the stone face of the nearest building. The young men gathered around him grimaced at
the stench of his breath.
Kolredd’s
face flushed, but Terga dropped a restraining hand on his shoulder. Terga was shorter than Kolredd, slightly
shorter even than the old man. He moved
closer and forced the drunk to meet his eyes.
“All paths end at the same.” His
voice was quiet and calming.
“Well spoke,
that.” The drunk paused, looked down to
his gourd and then down further, into his lap.
“But some end sooner than others.”
“And some,
such as yours, seem to go on and on.” Terga’s
voice was confident and slippery. The
old man didn’t like it.
“Bah! Too long, some might speak it.” The drunk’s voice grew quiet, and only the
closest could hear him, “I, for one.”
Terga heard
the comment, pondered it for a moment, and then let it pass. He knew that the drunk was not going to
elaborate.
The old man
turned his back to them, announcing in his way that he was done talking to them.
“Come,”
said Aine as he pulled his compatriots away, “the old man is done with us for
today. We’ll see him next Marketday.” The comment was enough to get Terga
moving. Aine had to physically pull
Kolredd from the man.
The three
friends moved from the brewer’s cart and walked across the small clearing at
the center of New Tharrenton. The village
consisted only of seven closely-grouped buildings, the tallest of which was the
mill that sat on the bank of Westerly Run.
Four of the other buildings and the mill surrounded the clearing that
was the site of the Marketday gathering, during which the farmers and hunters
from the surrounding country would meet, exchange tales, and barter for goods
and services. It was the one day each sixday
that the three friends, and their fellows, were sure to gather together.
Kolredd,
Thirdborn of Karred and the oldest of their group, worked as a hand on his older
brother’s homestead. He was obviously
frustrated with the conversation.
Aine wasn’t
surprised by the frustration. Being the
third son of the man who was closest to nobility in this backwater village gave
Kolredd a unique perspective on the world and his place in it. Aine, however, carried no such
illusions. He was the last remaining son
of a poor widow. The world looked very
different to him than it did to his larger friend. Although not surprised by it, Kolredd’s
frustration annoyed him nonetheless.
“The Second
Harvest is almost done,” Terga said. “Next
Marketday will be busy.” Unlike Aine, he
took the entire interaction in stride and, in fact, found it slightly
humorous. Having ventured far beyond the
New Tharrenton countryside in his younger years, he had observed Kolredd’s
sense of entitlement in many people, and to a much greater degree.
Ahead of
them and across the clearing, their three conpanions were speaking to a group
of woodsmen, whose wares were spread across the ground around them: Furs,
pouches of wild berries, and forest herbs.
“How is the
harvest on the eastern fields?” Kolredd asked.
The only answer he received was a shrug and a shake of the head. “The southern?”
“Better
than the west,” Aine answered.
“And
Karred’s fields?” Terga asked the
question out of politeness, although he knew the answer. Kolredd responded with a look that said, Fine.
Of course.
The three
just then came to their friends: Gaenid, Fourthborn of Karred, Felrath, a would-be
Initiate of the Church of Eight, and Gevean, the orphaned son of a travelling
merchant. The young men, all six of
them, were between seventeen and twenty years of age and felt a closer kinship
with each other than even their own families.
They had grown up together, had daydreamed, and plotted, and planned
together, had worked the fields together when needed.
“What’s the
talk?” Gaenid asked. Shorter but as
broad as his older brother, Gaenid greeted them with a wide smile.
“The
fields. Second Harvest,” answered Aine.
“The west
weren’t so bad,” Felrath said.
“What of
the Maebranecks?” Gaenid asked.
“They
were,” Kolredd insisted.
“They chose
the crop!” Felrath said.
“They
didn’t consult the Eight,” Terga said, eyeing Felrath surreptitiously.
“The Eight—!”
began Felrath, ready to defend his faith, before realizing that Terga was
merely ribbing him. He smiled at the
good-natured attack.
“The
Maebranecks chose a crop for the southern lands,” Gevean said, “without merchants.”
“Where
were… Where are the merchants?” Aine asked.
“The road
to New Tharrenton is long,” Terga replied.
“It’s not as it was.”
“The
Midsummer Harvest—” said Gaenid.
“It’s a
gamble for the merchants,” said Kolredd.
“The merchants didn’t come.”
“They’ve always
come. They’ll always come,” said
Felrath.
“Will
they?” Gevean asked. He had come to New
Tharrenton in a merchant train years before as a young child. His own experience told him that the
merchants were done with this nowhere town.
They
stopped at the rise adjacent to the mill overlooking the Westerly Run. The water flowed fast and cool under the gray
sky. The day was drawing to a
close. Shortly, the men would each go
their own way, but, as was their custom, they spent the late afternoon huddled
in a group close to the Run watching the last of the Marketday happenings.
“What of
the old man?” Gevean asked.
“Drunk,”
Aine answered.
They all
laughed. Of course Sammus was
drunk. He almost always was.
“He’s not
ready to talk,” Terga offered.
“Will he
ever be?” Kolredd asked, his frustration clearly having returned.
“Perhaps
not to you,” Aine said. “Maybe Terga and I should try alone next
Marketday.”
Kolredd’s
eyes grew wide, and he was about to respond when his younger brother
stepped-in.
“This has
to be our year,” Gaenid said. “It will
be about two sixdays before Winter Ready, and we won’t be able to leave then.”
“What are
you saying?” Kolredd glanced cooly at Gaenid.
“We have to
try,” Gaenid pushed. “It’s waiting for
us. If we wait too long, it won’t
happen.”
“He’s
right!” Gevean interjected
enthusiastically. “We need to go before
he gets her pregnant!” Laughter all
around.
“She’ll
hold him tight after that!” Terga said.
“The Pit?”
Aine asked. “He won’t even be allowed to
join us at Market!”
Against the
loud laughter, Gaenid tried to change the subject. “Mabrin came to Market with four hired
porters. They helped deliver his
wares. Do you think they would be
willing?”
“Not as
willing as her!” Felrath broke in.
The
laughter only grew more raucous, except for Kolredd. “What’s the need for porters?”
“To carry
our loads,” Gaenid said.
“You’re
serious,” Aine said.
“I am,”
said Gaenid. “The Pit is waiting. Walking there will tire us, unless they carry
for us.”
“The Pit?”
Felrath deadpanned.
“We’ve been
talking about it for the last three years,” Gevean said. “The Pit holds riches. This village, the fields, do not. Village is dying—you can all see it. We’ve talked about it! The Pit, with its crowns and gemstones, will
be around long after this village has returned to the forest.” He looked around, trying to gauge their
interest. Every word he had spoken was
true, so they believed. He noticed a
glimmer in more than one pair of eyes. “If
we don’t go now, we never will.”
“How long
to walk it?” Aine asked.
“Three or
four days?” Terga said.
“What of
the fields?” Kolredd asked. “What of our
families?” Despite his own desire to go,
he felt a responsibility to his father.
“That’s you,”
answered Gevean. “Some of us don’t have
families.”
“There is
nothing to hold us here,” said Terga.
“There is
something in this village,” Aine countered, “to hold each of us here.” But he knew that might not really be the case
for Terga or Gevean.
“Some ties
are stronger than others,” Gaenid offered.
“Some of us are ready to break those knots.” He looked around but seemed not to notice the
look on his brother’s face. The group
had discussed such a journey many times.
It seemed to him that, more so than ever before, most were taking the
idea seriously.
“New
Tharrenton is not the village our parents remember,” said Felrath.
“It’s not
the village I remember,” said Terga. Not
having been born in New Tharrenton, his views on the place were different than
most of theirs.
“That place
is dead,” said Gevean.
“What
happened to it?” Aine asked. “I want it
back.”
“Most of us
do, but it’s done,” said Gaenid. “We
must make a new place. We must start a
new time. It will help us. We can start a new time together!” His excitement spread; the others felt it.
“The
porters then?” Felrath asked.
“Mabrin is
done with them,” Gaenid said.
“Then
perhaps we should start,” Aine said, although he wasn’t so sure.
“Me? Orris, or even ‘The Porter’ if you
prefer. It makes no difference.” The man looked at them, sizing each of them
up.
“Porter,
then,” Gevean said. “What effort can you
offer us?”
“I will
provide four porters, including myself.
We will carry your packs, your kit, and your rations. We will set your camp and break it, as
needed. We will do no more. We will not wield weapons, except in our own
defense. We will not enter the Pit.”
They eyed
him; he was of average height but thick-armed.
He was paler than them, and his close-cropped hair had patches of
gray. His voice was a little too
matter-of-fact, the words coming quickly and confidently.
His manner
belied more experience than any of them possessed, and that made them nervous.
“We don’t
need him, or his ‘porters.’” Kolredd
spoke to his friends, as if Orris was not present. “We can carry our own.”
“We’ll not
want to carry our bedding into the hole,” said Terga.
“You will
speak to me only; my companions will not speak to any of you,” Orris continued
as if Kolredd has not interrupted. “They
will take orders from me and only me. My
companions are easily offended. You’d be
wise to keep that in mind.”
“What is
the tariff?” Kolredd’s question stopped Orris
from talking. The porter glanced evenly
at him, and then at the others in turn, before his gaze returned to Kolredd’s
face.
“One mark.”
“One. Mark.”
The answer was repeated and considered.
The most ignorant of the group felt that the amount was fair. Another, that it was too steep. Two others believed it preposterous, and
their thought was confirmed by the man’s next words.
“For each
day of labor,” Orris added.
The protest
was immediate, loud, and simultaneous.
“Only a fool would pay that!”
“What for?!” “A mark?” “We’re paying you only to guard our
belongings.” Orris waited in silence,
expecting the outburst but knowing full well the outcome of the conversation
before the others.
“One mark
for each day of labor,” Orris said. “And
you will pay us seven before the day we set off.”
“Seven
marks?” asked Gaenid.
“To carry
our supplies?” asked Aine.
“You’re
daft.” Even Gevean was surprised at the
exhorbitant sum.
“I’ll carry
my own,” Felrath said.
“Three
day’s march,” said Orris. “One day’s
camp. Three day’s return to
this…village.”
“We’re not
paying it,” said Terga. “Can’t.”
“Won’t. We’ll carry our own,” said Gaenid.
The
protests died down. The porter waited
patiently.
Finally, Aine
spoke, “Why only one day’s camp? What do
you—”
“Know? I know that none of you have been to the Pit,”
Orris said. “I know that most men do not
seek out their deaths, and that those who do, often find it more quickly than
they expect. I know that none of you has
seen violence, not real violence, and
that the most serious hurt you have seen was suffered from the errant axe of a
woodcutter, or the broken axle of a harvest-laden cart, or from a long tumble
from the top of an oak. I know that one
day will be enough for you children
to want to return to your homes. And so,
one day at the Pit—near the Pit—and three days walking in each direction. Seven days, seven marks.”
His words
gave the young men pause. Was he trying
to scare them? Regardless of his
intentions, he was correct. Most of them
knew it.
Again, he
waited patiently.
It was
Gevean who finally spoke. “We’ll pay
three marks before our journey and—”
“Spare me
the barter. You know the tariff. In a few days, my crew and I will walk from here. Whether to the Pit, with you, or west, to the
next village. Perhaps there I’ll at
least find a wench, some wine, and clean straw.” The porter stood and left the group.
“It’s not
worth it,” Kolredd said. “The tariff is
too high.”
“After the
Pit, we’ll each be able to pay that
tariff!” Terga countered.
Kolredd
looked at him evenly and shrugged.
“We’re
doing it?” Aine asked.
“Aye,”
Gaenid answered.
Some were
excited; others were not. They argued
amongst themselves for several more minutes but in the end agreed to pay the
porter. They split up, each heading to
his home and perhaps to locate his share of the tariff.
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That is Chapter One of my new novel, The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep. I am running a Kickstarter campaign to fund its publication. If you enjoyed this read and want to read more or if you're willing to support a would-be fantasy novelist, please go take a look at my Kickstarter campaign. I would really appreciate it. Thanks!
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