“Ahh~”
Thomas laid back on his hands which propped him sitting on the grass, enjoying a rare beam of sunlight which had broken through the clouds that constantly blanketed Petrice, warming the normally chill breeze, which was now most pleasant. He and Missy the mule had settled down to rest a few miles out from Coronton city and nearing the territory of the town of Qiche, at a spot set upon a particularly peaked hill which granted them a soft bed of grass and a pleasant view. A picturesque handful of small farms descended down a gentle slope towards the blue-green waters of a small lake, a rare find in an arid land such as this.
Missy was digging into a bag of feed Thomas had strapped around her ears, while he himself tore into a loaf of bread he had just bought from a local baker, which was so fresh it released a plume of hot and fragrant steam as he broke into it. The crust was tough enough to produce a satisfying crunch, but not so hard that it hurt the teeth to bite from directly, while the insides were dense, hearty and enriched with flavorful seeds and nuts, which were likely the same kinds Missy was currently devouring.
“Five coppers was far too humble a sum to pay for a work of art such as this!” He declared, kicking his feet a little as he enjoyed another bite.
His keen eyes then picked up on some movement a ways off on one of the small dirt roads. A gaggle of rough-looking men were gathered there, all of them wearing simple metal skull caps and cheap, patchy tabards bearing the symbol of the Mayor of Coronton. Their eyes were cruel and sharp, and they wore wolfish grins as they laughed raucously amongst themselves, disturbing the calm, quiet atmosphere of Thomas’ evening in a very un-Petrician way.
They must have felt his eyes fall upon them then, because one of them stopped laughing and nudged his fellow with his shoulder, gesturing in Thomas’ direction. Then the entire group of eight or nine men turned as one and began making their way towards him with menacing expressions. When they came to within a dozen feet of him Thomas set his meal aside and leaned forward to rest one hand upon his knee.
“Ey, you!” Called out the man who lead the group, the lot of them coming to a halt near the base of the small hill Thomas rested upon. “There’s a new tax for anybody stayin’ within the territory of Coronton. Mayor’s orders!”
“Aye.” Thomas called back down in acknowledgement. “And I paid my tax at the gate to the City when I arrived!”
The ruffians glanced slyly between each other and giggled mischievously as their leader continued his speech. “Well, I didn’t see that, did I? I weren’t there! So for all I knows yer just another tax evader, like the rest of these ungrateful folk.” And he lifted a hand to point about at the residences dotting the surrounding landscape.
Thomas grimaced at the man’s insinuation, noting his foreign accent as well. “And what if I decide not to pay this additional ‘sitting in peace tax’?” He asked, although he could already see the answer leering up at him in the eyes of these thugs.
“Well then, we’d be forced to do what we do to all the rubbish who won’t pay their dues. We’ll drag ye away, and it’ll be hard labor for you ‘til your debt is worked off!”
Thomas sighed in frustration and reluctantly reached down to his purse to retrieve a small sum of silver coins which he tossed down with an expertly-aimed flick into the hands of the man, who instinctually caught them but startled as he did so. Those five silver coins could comfortably feed a small family for a month, but the thug griped and turned the coins this way and that to inspect them with narrowed eyes.
“Well… if this is all ye can offer, I suppose we can let you off this time.” He grumbled out, and his men turned to continue on their way, but the leader remained for a few moments more, determined to intimidate the traveler since he’d been denied the fun of capturing him.
“Ye’d best not be here when we return.” He warned Thomas, glowering up at his perch upon the hill. “A few drinks and I may forget you paid yer tax again.”
Finally satisfied with his performance, the man turned back to meet up with his band, and they had soon departed out of sight, though the distant sound of their gloating laughter still rang out for a short while after.
Thomas frowned as he retrieved the remaining half-loaf of his supper, which had by now grown quite cold.
“So much for a relaxing moment.” He mumbled to Missy, who was still crunching away contentedly upon her feed.
Thereafter the pair resumed another long stretch of quiet as they concluded their meal, and just as Thomas prepared himself to head back out onto the road once again, a sudden shriek echoed out from a little further into the hills--and, in fact, the exact direction where those brutish men had gone! Missy leapt to her feet with a start, and Thomas reached onto her back to retrieve his sword from its place among the packs she carried. At a jogging pace he made his way down the slope of his small hill and around the next, following the curve of the rough dirt path. The sounds of a distant commotion grew louder with every step he took, until finally he turned the corner of a dilapidated wooden fence to find the same group who had so rudely interrupted his rest earlier.
Several of the ruffians were in the middle of beating down on the form of a middle-aged man who had curled himself in a protective fetal position upon the ground, while two of the others gripped a wailing, struggling woman who may be his wife. Thomas was alarmed to find he recognized the unfortunate couple–the two owned and ran the very same bakery wherein he had bought that delectable baked confection only a few hours prior. As Thomas came to a halt before this scene, the leader of the thugs turned, saw him standing there, and grinned darkly at him.
“What d’you want? Here to pay another toll?” He asked, chuckling meanly.
But it was only when one of the other brigands beside him took a step backwards, with terror writ across his face, that he peered down at the weapon that Thomas held in his hand and took in its characteristic black metal and wavy blade.
Immediately his grin fell and his face paled, but he only had time enough to stammer out, “F-Flamberge?!” before Thomas lunged forward!
A quite different symphony of panicked cries and violence rang out across the surrounding countryside as he went to work.
Thomas smiled, his mind already wandering back to that delicious bread. I wonder if this will mean I get another fresh, hot loaf…? Thomas thought dreamily, his mouth watering a little as he reaped.
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Nayantara estimated that they were now only another day’s march from the city of Coronton. Niklas deferred to her judgment on the matter, even though he was the only one who bore a map of the province, one which he had taken from the Castle library. She had, after all, personally wandered these roads for the many years since she first became a conscript at the Old Fort.
The swordswoman seemed to be in higher spirits even than usual. Her jubilant mood was likely due to the many breaks that had emerged in the normally thick ceiling of dark Petrician clouds which allowed rays of precious sunshine to warm the frigid winds that swept the province. Even old Chestnut had walked with nary a shudder of effort since the morning, as if determined to enjoy this rare sunny day despite the hardships of the road.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
This was the first long stretch of daytime that Nayantara had spent walking without making a single peep of conversation, an incredible occasion that Niklas attributed to the fortunate weather that graced them. Even he, as someone who had only lived here for a few months and had enjoyed many a sunny day back at the van der Leigh estate, found an alien emotion well up inside him from this suspiciously pleasant atmosphere.
As they continued on their long journey they soon enough spied something peculiar coming their way in the far distance. From his lofted position on the horse’s back, Niklas was able to discern that it was a small gaggle of people as they drew closer. There were people of all kinds–men and women, the young and the old, accompanied by some drought animals whose backs were laden with large packs and sacks that strained at their seams. All of those assembled were grave and stony-faced, wearing that familiar, neutral demeanor which was the norm for the citizens of Petrice.
“What’s that all about..?” Niklas wondered aloud as he peered at the group.
“Want me to find out? Wait right here!” Nayantara said without waiting even a moment for his response, immediately turning on her heel and running over.
“No, you don’t have to--” Niklas called out in a rush, but she was already gone, so he simply sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
Resigned to waiting for his companion to return, he descended from the back of his horse to give the poor old girl a chance to rest and munch on some nearby grass, while he himself took a seat upon a large rock. At his current distance Niklas could not hear what words Nayantara exchanged with the other travelers, but as he watched them speak he observed how her usually chipper demeanor quickly turned serious. Some of the people there appeared to recognize her on sight, while others at least softened their flinty gazes when they spied the telling make of the sword strapped to her back. But many suspicious eyes also came to rest upon where he sat, and so he busied himself with rubbing Chestnut’s mane so as to pretend not to notice their burning glares.
After a few minutes of conversation the Huntress returned to Niklas’ side.
“I suppose you could call them... refugees from Coronton.” She said, pointing a thumb back and over her shoulder to indicate the group, who were currently making their way past. “It sounds like they left just in time to avoid the tyranny of the Lord there.”
Niklas wore a pained expression as he watched these poor and weary folk pass by, some of whom stumbled weakly over patches of loose dirt or dry grass, and who one and all carried far too much luggage upon their stooped backs.
How quick some men are to grab onto any opportunity to wring the common people dry…
The pity on his face then morphed into an angry determination.
“Let us make for Coronton double-quick.” He declared.
Nayantara nodded agreeably, but after his sudden change in demeanor she couldn’t help but glance curiously over at her traveling companion as they resumed their journey together.
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Back within the halls of Castle Petrice, the old Butler sighed dejectedly for what must have been the thousandth time since that morning. His gaze was uncharacteristically distant and distracted even as he stood precariously at the top of a rickety ladder to dust behind a bookshelf inside one of the Castle’s guest rooms.
Hemsley, who was completing the same task in another guest room across the hallway, rolled his eyes as he heard yet another overly dramatic exhale from the old man. He had been making such sounds all morning.
At first only the things which reminded him of their suddenly-departed young Lord had drawn out the old man out of his sullen mood. Things such as preparing breakfast or rearranging the Count’s quarters. However, as the day had progressed, he had maintained his forlorn state constantly, even while attending to trivial tasks that would have drawn any lesser man out of his thoughts for a time.
It’s been less than two days since the Lord departed for Coronton. Hemsley thought to himself, taking out his frustration with a particularly aggressive swipe of his dusting rag. Please return soon, Count Niklas, I dunno how long I can stand this..!
Mercifully, it was then that a sudden, loud and heavy knocking erupted from the courtyard doors!
“Oh! I shall get it!” Belfort announced excitedly, tossing aside his cleaning supplies and all but running into the hallway.
Hemsley dutifully followed along behind the old man, though he didn’t bother to match his hurried pace. By the time he had made it past the door to the Countess’ study, Belfort was already pulling open one of the large front doors much further down the hall.
Unfortunately, the Butler soon discovered that behind the door was not the Count as he had hoped, but rather a large, older Petrician man with a beard of rough stubble and a head of graying, receding hair. As was usual for the men of this land he wore a deep-set scowl upon his face, as did the large group of men and women who stood behind him in the courtyard. Belfort recognized this dour visitor near-instantly–he was the Elder head of the nearby Village of Wiffeld. The burly Elder took a step into the threshold, bodily shoving Belfort backwards as the small old man attempted to bar him entrance!
“Where is your Lord, old man?” Demanded the Village Head then, glowering down at the Butler.
“T-the Lord is out and away!” Stammered Belfort, who had clearly been caught quite wrong-footed, yet still stood his ground. “And you will address our Count with the respect that he deserves!”
The large, rude fellow did not reply, but instead peered over his head to look at Hemsley who was only just arriving to the site of the commotion.
“Hmph.” Scoffed the Elder. “Already bringing foreigners into the house of Petrice? What gall!”
Hemsley came to a sudden halt as he took in this newcomer’s threatening demeanor, and he set his jaw in a defiant expressions as he met the man’s cold gaze.
The Village Head didn’t bother with his staring contest, but instead looked down at Belfort again, who struggled to push his larger frame back out of the landing. “Do not lie to me, Butler! Bring out your Lord. We bring words for him, and perhaps worse ones than planned if he continues to hide like a rat!”
“As we said before, the Count is not. Here.” Hemsley angrily refuted, giving his chest another ineffectual shove as he spoke. “He set out for Coronton the sundown before last, to set the Mayor there straight!”
“Hah!” The Elder scoffed again, this time with a cynical, disbelieving chuckle. “More like he’s left to meet his conspirator and collect his share of the spoils” He said, forcefully taking another step forward into the hall then, which fully pushed the smaller Belfort back and sent him sprawling to his seat on the flagstones!
Hemsley worriedly rushed over to his colleague’s side as the Village Elder and many more of the grim-faced men he had brought with him proceeded past them down the hall towards the ballroom.
“You cannot enter!” Shouted Hemsley with all the conviction he could muster, but he was ignored by the lot of them.
Finally reaching the large, grand ballroom, the gaggle of intruders distractedly stopped to look about it with some awe, as they had never laid eyes on a building so large before.
“...He has plenty of room for us, so I think we shall make ourselves at home here until that little Lord returns.” Said the Village Head to his men. And no sooner had he spoken than did the others begin laying down the rough woolen cushions and blankets they had brought with them.
The two servants could only look on helplessly as this odd campsite was created, Hemsley with Belfort’s arm slung over his shoulders for support. The younger man whispered. “Whatever shall we do about this..?”
Belfort clasped a clammy and shaking hand over his forehead in dismay. “...Never has there been such a disgraceful display as this in the house of our Lords.” He moaned, shaking his head. “Oh my father will be rolling in his-”
“--Belfort!” Hemsley interrupted him shrilly, anxious to bring his colleague’s mind back to the issue at hand.
“R-right, right.” The old servant replied, sighing in resignation. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but… I think we must call for the Countess.”
Relieved to have a plan, Hemsley nodded his acknowledgement and began to help him make their way to the grand staircase in the center of the room.
“Oh, but it’s going to be so hard to get the blood out of the carpet…” Belfort grumbled quietly as they walked, which caused Hemsley to stumble a moment in dismay, and his eyes grew as wide as saucers as he remembered the last time the Countess was called on to deal with a large and angry group of men.