The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep, Chapter Three

A couple of weeks ago, I told how most of my 'gaming' time from the past year or more has actually been devoted to writing.  I've always wanted to be a novelist and decided it was time to make it a reality.

My intention is to self-publish my novel (The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep), and I'm running a Kickstarter campaign to fund that process.  The campaign is going fairly well; I'm currently at 57% of my funding goal of $2266 with 17 more days to go.

To try to draw attention to my project, I'm posting chapters of the first novel here at CartoCacography.  Chapter One is here.  Chapter Two is here.  Chapter Three is below.

As with any crowdfunding campaign, it will not be successful unless I can find backers who are interested in my writing and interested in the project.  I purposefully wrote the story to match the general aesthetic that I like in my gaming--a decidedly old school vibe where normal people are attempting abnormal things, where success is not guaranteed, and where death is a very real possibility.  I truly believe that anyone who frequents this corner of the blogosphere would enjoy the story.  Please go read the previous chapters; please go check out the Kickstarter campaign; and please help out if you have a spare buck (or pound or euro) or two.  Thanks!

Without further ado, Chapter Three:

The Brothers: Kolredd and Gaenid

            Gaenid stood at the entrance to a small stone crypt on the hill over the House of Karred.  The morning chores were done for the day, and the late morning sun shone on his back.  The crypt’s eave came barely to his shoulder, although he knew that the four steps just inside led downward so that he’d be able to stand upright.  He hadn’t entered since he was but eight or nine years old, when his grandfather had been laid to rest within its dim confines.  It was the stories that his grandfather used to tell him that brought him to the crypt this day, tales of mighty warriors who protected New Tharrenton from the creatures who called the forests home.

            His grandfather had spoken of it many times, so much so that Gaenid knew the stories were true.  Despite his grandfather and uncles now dead and his own older brothers denying that it existed, he was sure that he would find it in the crypt.

            He said a short prayer for forgiveness, made the sign, and withdrew the iron key from his pocket.  He slid it into the lock and twisted hard on the cold metal block.  Surprisingly, it turned easily, and the lock fell open in his hand.  He pulled it from the door, quickly ducked through the entrance, and, in his haste, forgot how steep the steps were and fell to the stone floor.  Cursing loudly, he pulled himself to his feet and was struck by the dank odor of long-ago death.

            He walked the five paces that took him to his grandfather’s resting place, actually a hole in the stone wall that was two feet wide, a foot high, and six feet deep.  The top of the deads-helm was plainly visible in the dim light.  Just below his grandfather was a smaller hole; only a quarter of the size and half as deep, the deathhold contained those items sacred to the deceased.

            Gaenid moved to his left, gazed from floor to ceiling, and then left again, tracing backward through generations of family patriarchs.  Finally, he came to the ancestor he suspected.  Again saying a short prayer for forgiveness, he reached into the deathhold and felt around with his hand.  Some ancient items of clothing disintegrated under his touch.  He continued to grope around and then felt it.  Leather, dried and cracked, wrapped round a long and narrow object.  His hand tightened around the object and the leather cracked further.  It was heavy, as he expected it to be, but he quickly pulled it from the deathhold.  He had found it!

            In his hand, in a leather scabbard that fell to pieces even as he gazed upon it, rested a sword.  Buthercurr was wielded by his grandfather six generations previous and by the men of three generations previous to him.

            The stories say that Buthercurr is enchanted—could it be true?  Is there magic still in the world, or has it left with the passing of the dwarves, the elves, and the dragons?  Gaenid didn’t know the answer to these questions—he had asked them many times over the course of his short life.

            Bringing the blade close to his face, he examined its edge, and then pulled his thumb across it.  Keen, even after all of those years.  His eyes slid up and down its length—no nicks or dents to be seen.  And then he felt it—Buthercurr seemed to vibrate in his hand.  A slight tingling—it was as if he had struck the sword against a stone wall.  Was he imagining it?  He swung the sword once, as far as could be done in the small confines of the crypt.  It felt to Gaenid that the sword pulled his arm through the motion rather than him directing it.

            He could feel the excitement in the pit of his stomach.  The sword would be accompanying him on the journey.

            Karred gazed at him with a face that was stern, but with eyes that belied other feelings.  “You have been a proper third son.  You have served your duty to me, to your older brother, to the land.  You should be thinking of a wife and a homestead of your own soon.  Instead, you think of this.”

            Kolredd had no answer.  He merely returned his father’s gaze with similarly calm eyes.

            The older man stood just beyond the low stone fence that marked the edge of his property.  They had met there, where the son knew the father would be returning from his day.  Karred leaned his walking stick against the stone wall and turned to walk along it.  Kolredd followed.

            “I should have seen this coming,” Karred said.  “Long after tales of adventure faded for my eldest, you continued to ask to hear them.  Perhaps I fed your desires—those tales interested me when I was a lad.  Telling you the stories was a way for me to remember when my father told me the same.”

            Kolredd nodded absently.  He always knew that his father enjoyed their times by the fire, whether the great hearth of his home or under the starry sky.

            “Do you know that our ancestors once believed that New Tharrenton would grow to be as mighty and prosperous as Tharrenton itself?  When the City Guarded by Stone fell and the survivors fled, many of them came to settle in the lands around the village.”

            Though one of the oldest men in and around New Tharrenton, Karred was still strong and straight of back.  Kolredd often hoped that he might be half as strong when he reached his father’s age.  And yet, walking across the fence from him, the older man seemed somehow smaller than usual.

            “So many of the old homesteads have been abandoned,” Karred continued.  “The old families have faded.  Fields overgrown; homes homes no longer.  Even as our family has grown, most of the others have shrunk or died.  I remember, before I married, when Marketday might see five hundred faces in the village—when it was still a village!”

            Kolredd could not imagine such a thing.  Five hundred faces!  He had never seen half that in one place.

            “And they said, when I was your age, that New Tharrenton had been growing smaller for years.”

            They walked in silence for some minutes.  Karred occasionally bent down to look over the stones of the fence.  He tugged at them, testing the wall’s strength.

            “Your journey, perhaps it will shrink the village even more,” said the old man.  “Or perhaps the village will grow after your success?  Who can say?  I cannot, and I’ve no right to try.  I’ve toiled the land, raised a family, built a homestead to rival any that New Tharrenton has seen.  But I haven’t left this place.  Will you leaving help kill the village or heal it?”

            “I’m not leaving the village for its sake,” Kolredd responded.  “I’m leaving for mine.  I’m leaving so that when I grow to be your age, I can say that I did.  Perhaps I’ll settle here, after my fortune is made.”

            “A fortune?”

            “Fortune—yes!  A sack of crowns and a mighty sigil to my name!  Then I will raise a family and build a homestead—to rival even your own.”

            The father laughed at his son’s confidence.  The smile was warm and affectionate and easily returned by the son.  Karred’s smile lingered on his face for many moments, and he occasionally chuckled to himself.  They walked further in silence, until the smile eventually faded.

            “Those tales by the fire, most were not truths but lies told by travelling bards.  Heroes, mages, maidens, creatures stronger than ten men?  Mmm.”  The old man paused and looked at his son.  “Evil nobles?  There is enough evil in each of us—the world could not bear truly evil men.  Quests for shining treasure?  No.”

            “There is treasure to be found; there are piles of gold crown.”

            “I hope for my sake that you are right.  But for now, silence.  Back to the hearth where we will feast, and you can tell your sister what it is you plan.”

            The great hearth of the commonroom was bright with the light of three cooking fires blazing.  Kaise, Karred’s only daughter and youngest child, sat next to a large cauldron at the center of the hearth, stirring its contents with a great spoon.  Gaenid had just entered to find his three older brothers sitting at the High Table with Karred.  Amathere, the oldest, and Ongrinn, the second, sat across from Kolredd with grave expressions on their faces.

            “The Pit?” asked Amathere.

            Kolredd nodded, already tired of the conversation.

            “When will you leave?”  The question barely hid the contempt in Ongrinn’s voice.

            Gaenid paused in the doorway, not wanting to be drawn into a debate about their plans.  He looked to his sister, obviously interested in what the men were discussing.  The aroma wafting from her cauldron was the only reason he did not turn and leave immediately.

            “Your idea?”

            Gaenid looked back to the table to see that Amathere’s question was directed at him.  He didn’t feel it necessary to answer.

            Amathere and Ongrinn were a year apart.  And then seven years later, Kolredd had been born, Gaenid a year later, and finally Kaise two years after that.  The two eldest often took it upon themselves to tell the three youngest how and why they were wrong.  Their reaction was expected and boring because of it.

            Gaenid wanted so much to announce to the room that he had Buthercurr and that the sword would ensure that he and Kolredd would return safely.  He knew without a doubt what the reaction from his brothers would be.  He was unsure of Karred’s reaction, and it was for this that he held his tongue.

            “We’ve spoken of it often,” Kolredd answered.  Gaenid was more enthusiastic for the journey than he was, but, as had been the case for as long as he could remember, Kolredd felt the need to band together with his younger brother in defense against the older.  He wasn’t sure if Gaenid appreciated it or not; he never thought to care.

            “’We’ve’?” Ongrinn asked.  “Your band?  Terga, Felrath, and the others?”

            Kolredd nodded in response.

            “What of the House?” demanded Amathere.

            “The House of Erretharbin is strong,” said Karred, speaking for the first time since Gaenid entered the room.

            “But the House is only as strong as the sons of the Lord,” said Ongrinn.

            “And I, as Lord of this House,” began Karred, “have been blessed with four sons, two adult and two to become so.”  He looked evenly at each of his sons with approval and respect for each of them, and then he stopped and gazed lovingly over his shoulder at Kaise, diligently working the cauldron.  “And a beautiful daughter besides.  The House is strong—stronger than I could have hoped for when I was given the badge.  No other Houselord around New Tharrenton possesses a like bounty.”

            “We only want to grow that bounty—”

            Karred interrupted his oldest son.  “You have, and will continue.  But Kolredd and Gaenid have chosen a different path.”

            “But their duty—”

            Karred interrupted again, anger rising in his voice.  “The duty of the Third Son or Fourth Son is not the same as that of the First, or the Second.  They have done their duty.”

            “So you will let them and their—playmates,” Ongrinn almost spat the word, “journey to the Pit—”

            “Second!”  Karred’s sharp use of the formal title caught his son.  Ongrinn abruptly shut his mouth.  “Permission was asked and permission granted.”

            Amathere turned to face his father directly.  “What of Adojan?  What of the Party of Ten?  Have you told Kolredd, Gaenid, about them?”

            The name Adojan caught both of the younger men by surprise.  They had not known the man, but they did know some of his relatives.  What they both knew is that he had left New Tharrenton around the time that they had been born.  It was not uncommon for men to leave the village, so they had never given him a second thought.  They both looked to Karred.

            “Enough!”

            But it wasn’t.  At least, not for Gaenid.  “What of Adojan?”

            Karred ignored him and stood up.

            “Panna?” Kaise asked.

            The Houselord stepped from the table and moved toward the doorway that led to his chambers.  Halfway across the room, he stopped.

            “Panna?” Kaise repeated.   She stood from the cauldron, ready to abandon it.

            Karred turned toward his children, but did not raise his eyes to them.  “Adojan was one of Riorley’s folk, of House Gulhobar.  Twenty-two years ago, at the height of summer, he led a band of ten New Tharrenton men to the Pit.”

            “What became of him?” asked Kolredd.

            Their father took a deep breath; it was obviously difficult for him to answer the question.  “They left on a Marketday.  The village held a kermis for them.  It hadn’t been attempted in years.  There was still, among some in the village, the old desire to return to the city, to take back what had belonged to our ancestors.”  He quieted as he spoke, reliving a memory that he had not come to him in many years.  “Songs were sung; flowers were thrown.”  He finally looked up at them.

            “Adojan,” said Gaenid.  “What happened?”

            Karred glanced at his youngest son, his face calm with the memory, and then he grimaced.  Striding back to stand before his eldest, he struck Amathere with his open hand.  Not expecting the blow, Amathere fell to the ground beside the High Table.

            “What was your purpose in mentioning it?” Karred raged.  “The First, and even now a fool!”  His sudden rage surprised everyone in the room, especially his battered son.  He turned back the way he had come and left the commonroom.

            Ongrinn knelt to help Amathere to his feet, but the eldest violently shrugged him off.  Amathere glared at his siblings and then left the room through another exit, growling low in his throat as he departed.

            “Ongrinn?” asked Kaise.  “What was that…?”

            The Second stood, puzzled, and then realization struck him.

            “I think Amathere hoped to remind father of Adojan, to convince you to stay.”

            “Why then his anger?” asked Kolredd.

            “Because Adojan’s story may not be the lesson that Amathere hoped.”

            “Chike, Ongrinn,” said Gaenid.  “What happened to Adojan?”

            “I’m not exactly sure,” Ongrinn answered.  “I don’t think that anyone knows.  He never returned, but one of his party—Billeg was his name.  Billeg was found near Center Rock.  He said that they were all killed, every man, except himself.  They ventured into the Pit, but only he returned to the village.”

            Gaenid’s earlier enthusiasm drained from his face.  “I’ve not heard of Billeg,” he said.  “Does he still live?”

            “No,” answered Ongrinn.  “He died when you were young.”

            Kolredd pondered the story for a moment.  “What of that story…  Why was Karred so angry?”

            Ongrinn looked at his younger brother, reluctant to speak.

            “Ongrinn?”

            “Father was angry, because, although they all died, Billeg returned with something that he had taken from the Pit.  He had with him a pouch full of Tharreni crowns.”

The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep, Chapter Two

Gathering

            Aine walked with the two sons of the House of Karred.  His vastly smaller homestead was on the way to theirs.  The sun was dropping lower in the sky and, in the shade of the trees, the late afternoon chill was noticeable to all of them.

            Aine didn’t share it with them, but he was nervous.  He would be hard-pressed to come up with a mark in time to pay the porter.  He didn’t have one and doubted that his maenna would either.  Not that he could ask her for one if she did.  That was out of the question.

            Perhaps the porters would accept something in exchange for his mark—some milk, cheese, eggs or bread.  It wouldn’t be too difficult to prepare a mark’s worth of rations.  Only worth it if they were willing.

            “Heroes and porters!” Gaenid said, walking between Aine and Kolredd.

            Both men looked at him. 

            “What?” Kolredd asked him.

            “You heard me.  Heroes and porters.”  He flashed a bright smile at his older brother and then turned and repeated it for Aine.

            “What are you about?”  Aine smiled, momentarily forgetting his quandary.  The shorter man’s enthusiasm was infectious.

            “In all the stories that we’ve been told, all the great adventures, the heroes had porters carrying their belongings.  We do, as well!”

            “We’re not heroes,” Aine responded, the smile still in his voice.

            “Aine’s right,” said Kolredd, although the smile on his face indicated that he liked the idea.  “We’re farmers, most of us.”

            “For now, yes,” said Gaenid.  “But when we return from the Pit, we’ll be heroes.”

            Aine shook his head.  “Heroes?”

            Gaenid nodded.

            “And porters?” Aine continued.

            “Heroes to who?” Kolredd asked.  “We aren’t saving anyone.  We aren’t righting some wrong.  We aren’t protecting our lands from trolls or giants.”

            “Trolls or giants?  Where?”

            The three men looked up to see Maerrah and Evanshah rounding the bend in the trail coming toward them.  The two girls were sisters, a few years younger than the men.  Their homestead was back toward the village.  It was Maerrah who had asked the question.

            Aine and Kolredd both looked from the girls to Gaenid.  Maerrah had been pursuing Karred’s Fourthborn for over a year now, in a manner that was too aggressive to be entirely proper.  Gaenid was cagey at best about his feelings for the girl; the smile had left his face.

            The five of them stopped as they came to within a couple of paces of one another.  The girls were both wearing their Family Sashes for Marketday, as was the custom for the women of New Tharrenton.  The small cloths, which looped over their necks and tied at their waists, were heavily embroidered.  Flowers and trees of the forest surrounded their family sigil: A hoe and an axe crossed in front of stylized crops, all in font of a large green oak tree.  Fringes of deep red, bright blue, and summer green hung from its edges.

            “Where are you coming from, so late in the afternoon?” Aine asked them.

            “Delivering eggs and other sundries to the Silmardans and some of the other families for our panna,” Maerrah answered and then turned her gaze directly at Gaenid.  “What’s this talk of trolls and giants?”

            Evanshah laughed at the question.

            “The Pit.”  Gaenid cleared his throat and repeated himself, “The Pit.  The boys have finally decided to join me!”

            Kolredd and Aine both looked at him incredulously.  “Decided?  To join you?”

            “Oh, have they?”  Maerrah smiled and look at each of them in turn.  “You’re going there?”

            Evanshah laughed again and then asked, “Do you think you’ll find some?  In the Pit?  Trolls and giants?”

            The interaction annoyed Aine.  Most people didn’t speak lightly of the Pit, or of what might be found there.  It was obviously a joke to the girls.  Was it a joke to his companions?

            Aine stepped aside and began to leave the conversation behind.

            “Aine!” Kolredd called.

            “Maenna’s waiting and the evening chores,” Aine responded over his shoulder.  He hoped his annoyance wasn’t evident in his voice.

            As he left the four behind and their voices quieted behind him, his mind immediately returned to the tariff for the porters.  A whole mark.  The amount would be no problem for Kolredd and Gaenid—they probably each had a pile of marks to their name, sitting in a chest somewhere in their homestead.  Unlike them, however, his farm was small, his family even smaller—his maenna and himself.  He would have to work to gather that coinage.

            A moment later, Kolredd and Gaenid caught up with Aine.  As their footsteps drew closer behind him, Gaenid called out to him, “We have the porters.  Do you know what else heroes need?”

            Aine couldn’t help but smile.  Gaenid was starting to believe his own stories!  He didn’t bother to attempt to answer; he knew that Gaenid would be answering the question momentarily.

            “Squires!”

            Aine paused, just long enough for the others to catch him before continuing.

            “Squires?”

            “Porters carry the kit, build the camp, tend the fire.  Squires join the heroes, carry their weapons, stand ready to assist.”

            “There are no heroes,” Kolredd insisted.

            “There can be squires.”

            Kolredd only shook his head.

            As ludicrous as the idea initially sounded to Aine, it quickly grew on him.  There was a purpose to having ‘squires’ as Gaenid called them.  Aine had a few boys in mind.

            Shortly, they came to an intersection in the path.  Aine moved to turn from the main thoroughfare.

            “Where to?” asked Kolredd.

            “A quick errand before home.  Soft ground and sharp sickles!”

            The two returned the friendly fairwell and then continued toward the House of Karred.

            Aine rapped on the low wooden door of the Silmarden homestead.  He heard laughter and the sounds of supper within.  The Silmardans were a large family—certainly larger than his own.  The homestead housed at least ten people from three generations, and they were good people.  There was a clatter from within, someone moving toward the door.  Aine wondered who would greet him.

            Standing in the deepening gloom, Aine gazed at the Silmarden family sigil painted on the doorstone directly above the door:  Five stalks of golden baerli, above a blue stream.  Behind was a forest, above which rose two grayish green hills.  The baerli harvest was coming soon.  Would Wornen be willing?

            At just that instant, Carngrae, the patriarch of the clan, opened the door.  Light spilled out into the evening gloom.

            “Who’s there?  Aine!”  The man was surprised to see him but gave him a nod and a smile.  “Shouldn’t you be supping with Tiresse by now?”

            “Aye, I should, sir.  I’m heading there now.”

            “What’s your aim?”

            “Is Wornen in?  I’d like to speak to him.”

            “A task?  An extra chore?” Carngrae asked, thinking he understood the nature of Aine’s visit.  It wasn’t uncommon for the families of New Tharrenton to work together when extra hands were needed.  He turned into the house and called, “Wornen!  Aine—about a chore!”  He left Aine standing at the open door as he moved back into the house and returned to the commonroom table.

            Wornen quickly appeared.

            “We’re going to the Pit,” Aine said quietly, not even giving the fifteen year old a chance to speak.

            Wornen’s eyes widened, and then he stepped into the evening air and pulled the door shut behind him.

            “Who?” he asked excitedly.

            “The six of us,” Aine answered.  “We decided at Market.”

            “And me?”

            “If you want to go.”  Aine paused.  “I’ll need to convince Kolredd.”

            “When?”

            “Next Market.”

            Wornen pondered the answer and then fell downcast.  “The harvest,” he commented dejectedly.  His panna expected him to help, as did the father of every son in and around New Tharrenton.  The decision to skip it would not be an easy one.

            “I know,” Aine replied, sympathetically patting the boy on the shoulder.  “You’ll need to decide.”

            “The fields are almost ready…”  He fell into thought.

            Aine understood the boy’s dilemma, but he didn’t have time that evening to wait.  “Carngrae will not be without help.  Aurbin and the boys can handle the harvest.”

            Wornen thought it over.  “It’s the harvest, Aine.  You don’t know—”

            “What?  I don’t know, because most of my family’s fields lie fallow?  Because it is only my maenna and I?  Is it because—”

            “Aine!” Wornen interrupted.  “I’m sorry.  I…  Give me some time to think about it.”

            “You have a sixday.”

            “Are you going to ask anyone else?”

            “Probably Right Cheek.”

            “Does that mean you’re going to start calling me ‘Wyrm’ again?” Wornen asked defiantly.

            ‘Right Cheek’ was the derogative nickname for Rebley Aggsby, another fifteen year old.  He had a large brown birthmark that extended from the middle of his right cheek to beneath his jaw.  Not only did the mark sharply contrast with his pale face, a dark tuft of black hair grew from it, in sharp contrast to his red hair.  Likewise, Wornen was called ‘Wyrm’ when he was younger due to the large purple birthmark on his back and left side.  The mark seemed to wind around his kidney like a snake.

            “Not tonight.  But perhaps at the Pit.”

            Wornen did not appreciate Aine’s attempt at humor.  He opened the door to his house.  “I’ll let you know.”

            Gaenid and Kolredd continued toward their father’s lands after Aine left them at the intersection.  They walked in silence for several moments, which was common when they were alone together.

            Kolredd fancied himself the de facto leader of their group of friends.  His personality demanded that he take a leadership role.  As Thirdborn, he held very little sway within the structure of the House of Karred so it was natural to him that he would be the leader of their small band.  That he was oldest of their group only reinforced the idea in his mind.  Gaenid, as Fourthborn, was content to acquiesce.

            “Do you think the Houselord will allow it?” Gaenid asked his older brother.

            “I do,” Kolredd responded simply.  They left the forest and passed through a gate in a stone wall that marked the edge of their father’s property.

            “Amathere?” Gaenid asked.  “Ongrinn?”  Karred might allow the ‘adventure’, but their two older brothers would surely have a different opinion.

            “They’ve no stand to stop us.  They won’t like it.  But they aren’t Houselord.”  Kolredd laughed and gently shoved his shorter brother.  “But as I can wrestle you to the ground, I can do the same to them!”

            Gaenid laughed in return.  “Both of them?”

            “If need be!  What about you?”

            “There’ll be stew.  Perhaps after I eat!”

            Kolredd laughed at the joke and then grew serious.  “Do you think Kaise will cook us a farewell feast?”

            Kaise was their younger sister, the Fifthborn of Karred.  She was dearly loved by both of them.

            “Kaise won’t be happy,” said Gaenid.  “She’ll try to convince us to stay.”

            “I’m surprised that Maerrah didn’t try to convince you to stay!”  The large man broke into a bellow of a laugh.  Gaenid blushed and punched him on the shoulder.  “She might still yet!”

            “At least I have several who’ll ask me to stay.  Who in the entire village, other than Kaise, would care if you left?”  It was Gaenid’s turn to laugh.  “Even the Firstborn!  He’ll only want you to stay to work the harvest!”  Gaenid laughed so hard that he had to stop walking.

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That is Chapter Two of my new novel, The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep.  Chapter One is located here.

The Ramparts of Tharrenton Deep, Chapter One

New Tharrenton
            “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!