Aye, so, bade my song
Fear it. And wonder
At the darkest hour of Durandelle.
Fear the blade of thunder
And the west woman who wields it.
Fear her and the world under her wake.
- Unknown skall traced from the Lost Days of Yore
Fear it. And wonder
At the darkest hour of Durandelle.
Fear the blade of thunder
And the west woman who wields it.
Fear her and the world under her wake.
- Unknown skall traced from the Lost Days of Yore
The Eastern Reaches, Durandelle
The season of Shan, Marcelle decided, was far too hot for his liking. Even at the night. Being an ambassador of the Arch Administration had its privileges such as being able to partake in exotic foreign pleasures such as drinking chilled mead atop the Far Edges of Skof or riding on one of the towering dromaderies of Chamchir. However, the weather of his homeland had welcomed him with all the grace of a tavern in the Southern Reaches. He had sweated non-stop. His beloved had given him pickled mustard stew as a means of relieving his ailments but all that had managed to do was imprison him in his privy for the last couple of days.
Darkness already shrouded the eastern reaches of Durandelle and was chasing the sun towards the south. The curtain of night was falling fast. From his window, he could see the sun desperately fading into the west past the Rive Red and into the emerald cradle of the Yonder Timber. Smoky fingers of cloud wildly grasped after it but kept their distance as if they were afraid to be burnt by it.
He dwelled on the sunset through the solar before returning to the brown, flaxen piece of parchment on his desk with contempt and boredom. It was the fourth message from the capital of Beningrad, sealed with the purple waxen fencefish of the royal court. He bended the scroll gently, the seal cracking apart as chips of wax scattered across the lacquered oak table. He didn’t bother looking at the decree. It had been the same one ever since he arrived at his hold a week ago. Dipping his goose feather into an inkpot, he and signed a messy scrawl before tossing it over his shoulder. The scroll fell into a heap that had accumulated over the past few weeks, paper mites crawling all over it.
All because of the damned Line of Lucroy.
The work had doubled – no, thriced – since Duke Devereaux had taken Saryonne from the hands of Estelle Lucroy like a fox in a hen house. Well, not directly. It was all seen as a normal succession crisis within a clan but even a blind man could read between the lines and see what had occurred. It was not an oddity for a noble family to be wiped from the face of the earth but it was odd for the Arch Administration to be this decisive about it. A common Durandelle saying was that people would die of starvation at the gallows long before the Arch Administration sent the headsman to chop their heads off. Now, a thousand owls had flown across the blue skies of Durandelle with proclamations of heresy, execution and revocation of rights in their claws. The retribution was so swift and unforgiving that Marcelle briefly pitied the former head of Lucroy.
As the sun set over yonder past the forest brush and Marcelle dipped his feather again in the inkpot, he cursed the duke for both lengthening his days and shortening the time he had on this earth to spend with his family.
The Yondertimber, Durandelle
“ I dare say, good sir, that you have been leading us in circles! Why, I tell you, if I must bear one more hour in the presence of these dirt hovelling peasants ”
“ Oi, headsman. Can ya slice the head of this gold-head farker!”
“ I wannnnnnt ma mmooomaaa!”
Ogar’s grip on his axe trembled. Oh by the Morning how he wanted to slice their heads off and bring blessed silence to the forest. The implacable control that had been drilled into him as the headsman of the Arch Administration had faltered for the first time today. That had not been the only reason though. They had been walking through the Western YonderTimber for almost five days now and the endless green planes of ash and hornbeam made his eyes ache.
“ All of you, quiet. Quiet.” Ogar’s voice was like a stone dropped in the middle of a placid lake. The clamor of nearly three dozen men, women and children stopped behind him. He turned on to regard the troop behind them. They were like an lead anchor on his leg. The closest to him were his fellow rebels from the capital guard. Turriere was behind him, the lieutenant of the bunch and the most experienced. Her red hair was cropped short to the root and her left eye was patched thanks to a crossbow that nearly went through her entire eye. There were three others: Alain, a wall pikesman, Orgyle the warren watcher who had freed the other captives and Bernadolle, a soldier who had been arrested and sent to the Pits for alleged theft.
The others were a motley crew of peasants and royal men who had been rounded up in the Warrens. When Orgyle had freed the lot of them from their cells, they were little more than skeletons in rags. The time spent fleeing and looting the countryside had sent fat and meat back into their bones and more. Hunger and survival had, to Ogar’s relief, destroyed any semblance of grudge or past errs between the prisoners but it had returned.
At first, it was just an argument or two about who deserved the bigger leg of rabbit or who needed to wash their clothes first. Then, it had escalated. The nobles had reclaimed their ballooned sense of self importance whilst the peasants had regained their superstition and distrust of the nobles that had wracked Durandelle into war. The camp had nearly broken out into fights several times and it was only with the threat of his longaxe that made their mouths gum up.
“ We stop here. It’s getting dark. You all set up camp now.” The unlikely troop behind him shifted and heaved off their packs, beginning to unfurl out sleeping furs and their assorted belongings. Ogar gave a second glance of the clearing they had stopped in. The grass was low and no high enough to hide vipers or men. The trunks of the trees were neck to neck with each other. It wasn’t enough to stop any army but even a dedicated horde of Chamchir whistlers would have trouble attacking them. The sun was already setting and the soft yellow light fled to herald the indigo dawn of sunset.
Once they had settled in, Ogar nodded to the remnants of the capital guard that had followed him.
“ I’ll go scout ahead. We should be near the River Red now. Turriere, watch over them. Have them quarter the moose. Start hunting for small game. Our provisions have nearly run out.”
“ Aye, God.”
Ogar bristled, biting back. “ I told you all not to call me that.” Only jeers and laughter greeted him and he signed as he watched his three – well, last three companions in the entire world bully and cajole the peasants into setting him camp for the night. He strode into the forest, his axe on his back, gathering his loose thoughts into his mind.
Even after a fortnight on the run from Beningrad, he still had no idea of where he was going or what he was doing, other than keeping his prisoners alive. He was pulling them from place to place like a shepard except if the sheep were all wild cats who kept clawing at him at every opportunity. It was all because of what he had chosen to do at that morning, at that time. Ogar tried to figure out what had made him attack the guard captain in the first place. He had sliced plenty of children’s heads off before. A holy man of the Blessing Path would find him irredeemable beyond salvation. So, why now? Why had his soul twisted when he saw her? The question wracked his head as he heard the sound of rushing water to his east and followed it.
He broke through a gooseberry brush and was relieved to find a slow-moving stream. The water was clear and the moonlight glittered off the black surface of the water. He kneeled down and dipped his hands through the water, splashing it through his hair. He brushed his short cropped red hair and took a moment to observe his face in the water. He was gaunter than before and the bruise that had blackened his sharp nose had faded into a splotchy purple. He pulled up his upper lip with his finger and winced at how one of his front teeth was chipped, a scar of his escape from Beningrad. His tongue licked it and the pain made his eyes water.
He sat still in the water, taking in the sights of the River Red and its silt and how it curved and cut through the wild green ravages of the YonderTimber. The air here was still and clear and free of anyone but himself.
He then speared his hand through the water and the pike that had been swimming near him wriggled in his sausage like fingers.
Moments later, it was staring at him with an open maw – perhaps in betrayal – over a blazing orange fire. With one hand on the axe, Ogar signed and leaned back against one of the great dagger trees that the region was famous for. The stars were out against the black tapestry of the night sky. Ogar didn’t get how the astrolancers could figure out the time of season and weather. To him, it just looked like grains of sand scattered over a great banner.
The executioner closed his eyes and signed. He would rest here for a few hours and return back to the camp. Hopefully, no soul would bother him here.
