Under a Veil of Gods
Copyright © 2018 R. Anthony Giamusso
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Indigo
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2017961406
Print edition ISBN:
978-1-947727-15-1
Visit the author at:
www.bhcpress.com
To my family and friends for their unconditional love and support; my fiancé, Kerriann Lynn, who has been by my side through this entire journey, inspiring me every day; Jackson and Tuckman for taking me on walks; my mentor, Kaylie Jones, for challenging me to become the best writer I can be; Laurie Loewenstein for policing my bad writing habits; Sam Chiarelli for the invaluable feedback and guidance; and my cohorts at Wilkes University for their collective wisdom, encouragement, and friendship. Thank you!
At a farmhouse between merging rivers, Montague La-Rose knotted the last rope that held together the bags he’d stacked on his wagon. The farmer twisted and pulled the jute twine tight in the morning sun as its waxing light peaked in the sky. He was five miles from the capital, already late to deliver the herbs and spices he’d promised the King of Illyrium.
It was odd enough to sleep past sunrise when he always woke at first light, especially on one of two most important days of the year. But the fact that he felt nauseous worried him. Many people throughout Illyrium had become sick and bedridden, and the cause was unknown. As winds changed to winter, Montague’s medicine became highly sought. This single shipment could save hundreds of lives. His crops included some of the rarest plants in the world of Naan, and his arrival at the capital was most anticipated.
The bags on top were double wrapped in oilcloth, reminding him just how important it was that he made it to the rendezvous. They were for the princess. He’d received word from the castle that the king’s daughter, Olivia Volpi, began to hallucinate. It was a symptom of the recent foodborne illness. She was one of the first infected. But since the royal family did not want it known that a member of their bloodline was sick her condition was kept from the public.
As the high noon bell tolled, he climbed to the seat of his wagon.
“Let’s go, Earl,” he said to his donkey. Montague wiggled the bolt that held the splinter bar to make sure it was secure. “We’re finally on our way, three kingdoms to visit. I know you like that Graleon hay.”
Twice a year Montague delivered a share’s worth of goods to the high, rich castles of the United Kingdoms of Naan: Grale, Mern, and Illyrium, the first city and capital of Men. He also made sure to share with the dirt-bottom street dwellers throughout each kingdom until he was left with a small supply he kept for himself. Because of the situation with the princess, the king had arranged an early delivery with Montague, nearly a month before schedule. He’d bunker down at the stables for a week or two before leaving for Grale. In total, his trip would take four weeks. He felt proud about making his contribution to the rest of society, but it was also payday for Montague. The profit had to last for eight months until the next harvest.
For the past six weeks Montague had been secretly providing the castle with various herbal concoctions that helped ease Olivia’s discomfort. He was trusted by the king so much that the royal family had fired their own private healer and left the medical decisions for Olivia’s case up to Montague.
Most, if not all herbs Montague grew, were known to have healing properties. Peasants who couldn’t afford medicinal attention praised him. Since his family’s land was the only successful place nutwood and pigroot would grow, both known to produce oils that fight the deadliest infections, it was his responsibility to provide a healthy supply of those in particular to the healers across three islands. Although he wasn’t considered a healer himself, he still played an important role in public healthcare.
A recurring dizziness came upon him. But the urge to heave was gone.
The journey to Illyrium would take an hour if he traveled north along the coast of the Noahl River. But if the shore was blocked by fallen rock from the Gory Hills he would be forced to cross at the shallows to the other side, adding at least a half hour to his arrival time. Earl refused to walk through water that came above his hooves without snacks to tempt him. If Montague could only afford a horse, things would be much easier. Luckily, the path lit by a golden, midday sun was smooth at the onset of the voyage. There were no rocks and the fallen trees had been cleared by the woodsmen as they did before every first frost. He was more grateful than ever for the men’s hard work. But unfortunately there was nothing the woodsmen could do about the scattered puddles of fly-infested mud that were leaking into low-lying areas of the path. The odor was pungent. And since Earl’s feet got wet, the donkey was slow to maneuver.
Suddenly, Montague heard a wheel snap as the wagon slammed down on one side. The displacement caused the stack of bags to shift, tearing the bonnet covering the herbs and hurling the burlap across the malodorous terrain. When the wagon toppled over, the farmer rolled out from the crash.
Earl stood there entangled in his reins. But the donkey didn’t fall.
What a disaster, Montague thought. Six months of arduous work were on the verge of being lost. Out of a total of twenty-five, there were only ten dry bags left resting on top of fifteen others which were soaked. If the herbs and spices weren’t already contaminated by bacteria, the moisture would surely promote mold before they could be properly dried.
He held his hands to his broken heart. Montague was devastated, but he needed to keep moving. There was only one bag left of the precious nutwood and pigroot. Reflexively, he stuffed it under his arm so he could hold it tight. The princess, he thought. With each dry bag weighing thirty pounds, the middle-aged farmer could only carry one other dry bag on his own. He loaded as many as five on Earl’s back before the ass’s legs began to shake. So Montague took one off to ease his trouble. The rest would have to be left behind. Maybe, Montague thought if animals didn’t scoff it all up before his trip home he could salvage more. He covered the stack of herbs with the bonnet of the wagon.
Montague pulled the donkey through a mile of soft, cold dirt before they came to the edge of the dense forests leading to Illyrium.
Only minutes into the vine-choked path, Earl paused and his ears stood high. The sound of scattering in the long grass warned Montague that a pack of heavy-footed animals had surrounded them and were closing in fast. When a gibbering pig grunted, Earl trembled. Three pudgy faces with opaque eyes peeked through the long grass, their mouths drooling thick yellow mucus. The donkey brayed then rose up on his back legs, dropping the four bags he carried, and ran off into the woods, leaving Montague on his own.
But Montague had met feral broom pigs before. They became vicious over black radish, one of the twenty plants he had packed. This time he carried pounds of it. The pigs must have caught the scent, he thought. They could charge, kill him, and eat everything. Fall deliveries were the most difficult. The weather and animals were unpredictable.
Although Montague was a mere farmer, he was quite capable of defending himself with a sword. But his hands were full, carrying two bags of herbs. If he should need his sword, he would have to sacrifice one to grip it.
The sounder ran straight
for the bags that Earl had left behind. Driven by the raging hunger of a broom swine, they didn’t even acknowledge Montague. In their ignorance, he stepped back into the brush far enough that he was able to reach another path, one parallel to where the pigs had ambushed him and his donkey. He went unnoticed by the gang of pigs now ravaging the majority of his supply. But Montague knew he wasn’t out of trouble yet. He heard heavy, congested breathing behind him. A fourth pig stood in the outskirts of the feast, right where Montague was trying to escape. The boar’s hair puffed. It sniffed in the rich scent of a light breeze through its sopping nostrils, then charged.
Montague had to make a decision; either drop the bags on the high grass to handle his sword and defend himself and the last two bags of medicine, or try to outrun the beast while carrying sixty extra pounds of weight. There was a choice that was plausible. He placed one bag on top of the thick, stalky grass for a cushion, keeping the herbs marginally elevated from the ground’s moisture. The farmer couldn’t part with the bag that contained the princess’s medicine. It was too valuable. So Montague held onto it.
Unsheathing his blade with his right hand, he gripped the handle tight and close to the cross-guard. In the broken columns of waning light shining down between the trees, the pig appeared massive. Montague knew that if it charged he had only one chance to stop it before it trampled him. He took a step back, then another. As he distanced himself from the herbs the pig moved closer. But it stopped about ten feet away, took its eyes from Montague and snapped at the bag. The swine gobbled the herbs, snorting between bites.
With the beast occupied, Montague trudged onward to his destination. Now in the valley’s eastern shadow where giant sequoia trees lead to the land of Illyrium, he knew he was only minutes away. It was a good thing he held onto the more important of the two bags, he thought. The farmer was tired and his muscles were sore.
The last bag of rare herbs and spices was worth only enough coin to buy a new wagon and pay the blacksmith for new rakes and to sharpen worn sickles. Montague didn’t have enough to spare for the street folk at the markets. Nor would he keep any for himself. There were others that needed it more. He just didn’t know how he would pay for goods and taxes for the next seven months. Perhaps the king would cut him a break, he thought. Just before Montague’s father died, more than ten years ago, he had been to the castle with his parents for dinner. The royal Volpis liked his family very much and wanted to publicly thank them and other farmhouse names for providing the kingdom with the necessities of life. During the king’s words before the meal that night, he looked at Montague’s father and said, “You can always tell the quality of a family by the soil beneath a man’s home.” The La-Roses were blessed with fertile land.
The trails leading to the capital were usually patrolled by officers of the king. But today, Montague saw none. And when he finally arrived at the northern gates, he didn’t see Sully, the man who had always accepted the La-Rose deliveries since his father’s time. Nor did Montague recognize the three armored men guarding the gates. He only knew the gate tender, an orphaned boy named Sam.
“Good noon. I’ve had some trouble this morning. I deeply apologize for my tardiness,” Montague said, catching his breath. The officers, strangers to him, remained silent and stared blankly. “Sully, has he gone home?”
The king had specifically instructed Montague to give the herbs to Sully and only Sully during unscheduled deliveries. He peered through the lines of light between the wooden trunks of the gate, hoping to glimpse another shadow. But there was no one else walking the grounds.
“He got reassigned,” replied a guard who Montague heard the others call Gums. His brown teeth and thick gum line were permanently exposed.
Montague was cautious. The guard didn’t look like an officer of Illyrium; none of them did. And Sam, who would exchange a joke with Montague whenever he’d see him, wouldn’t even make eye-contact. “My wagon broke and I lost my donkey along with most of my supply. I need—”
The men giggled and pouted, mocking him as if Montague were a whining child. Their breaths reeked of ale. The king would feel disrespected if he knew that his officers were drunk during duty, Montague thought.
“Please, I need to speak to the king.”
“And who are you? What’s your business in Illyrium?” the guard was stern in his questioning.
“I am Montague La-Rose. I have herbs and spices for the kingdom—medicines. But, I’ve had a terrible time along the way. All but one bag of my supply was spoiled.”
“You think a king would take time out of his busy schedule just to hear about a farmer’s bad day?” Gums pursed his lips. “And that’s it? One dirty bag is all you have for an entire kingdom?”
The farmer glanced at what little he had to offer. At that, he became even more disappointed in himself. “The wheel on my wagon broke along the river bed, dumping my supply. This is all I was able to salvage.” With such little product to sell, he wouldn’t even bother making the trips to Grale or Mern. Illyrium would be the only kingdom to reap the benefits of Montague’s rare herbs.
Gums scanned him from forehead to foot. “Is that why you look like a dog covered in shit?”
The guards laughed.
Montague regarded his attire and realized how sweaty and dirty he was from his unfortunate morning. Noticing the pommel of his sword tilting out of his robe, he pulled the wool across his chest, making sure the handle and scabbard were concealed. These men had already proved to be hostile and they obviously thought Montague was a fool. If they noticed that he was armed, they might feel threatened. The farmer wanted to avoid conflict at all cost.
“Ben Paddett delivered a wagon full of herbs along with another two wagons of salted cattle carcasses. Like you said yourself—too late. Now piss off,” said Gums.
The guards turned. They must have assumed that Montague would just walk away after they’d ordered him off, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not without getting his herbs to the sick princess. If they only knew that Montague had been treating her with these plants, they would reconsider, he thought. But he chose not to speak of her health. He was sworn to secrecy.
“Didn’t you hear me farmer?” Gums asked, the veins in his forehead now bulging.
“Please,” Montague cried, holding out the burlap bags, “I have nutwood and pigroot. They are extremely rare and valuable. And I am the only one who can provide them. You need to get these to the castle. The king dubs them high priority items.”
“Ordering me, are you?” Gums frowned. “I’ll decide what needs to be done. And paying you for a dirty sack of herbs doesn’t seem like a likely option. I don’t care how rare they are. How much do you think a bag is actually worth?”
“My family has been providing the three kingdoms with these herbs for decades. The king requests them. If I can only discuss it with him at the castle—”
“You’ll discuss it with me!”
In all forty-four years of his life, Montague had been inside the castle three times. He admired the architecture and enjoyed the fragrant smells of burnt-brown sugar and carrot butter. The last two visits he’d made to Illyrium were not traditional deliveries; they were for medical examinations and treatment plans for the princess. He thought that maybe he could persuade the king to pay him at a healer’s wage, which was much more than a farmer’s income and would last him well beyond the next harvest.
“My lords,” Montague said. They were no lords, but he hoped that flattering them with high titles would alleviate the tension. He kneeled and offered the bag. “My apologies, I meant no disrespect. I shall leave it as a gift for the king.”
“You’re awful insistent, a little suspicious if I were to say. No one gives away anything for free,” said Gums. “Didn’t you say that they were valuable?”
“It’s more important for our lords and ladies to have it than me. I can always grow more. I promise you I have no ill intent towards the royal family.”
For a moment Gums studied Montagu
e, squinted, then relaxed his interrogating eyes and said, “No, I don’t think you do. But I still don’t trust you.” He turned to the other guards, “Let’s see if there is anything hidden inside.”
Gums grabbed the sack. He poked at it over and over again, spewing the fresh greens onto wet ground, laughing.
Montague watched the last fruits of his labor go to waste. Finally, he turned away, disgusted.
“Hey!” Gums bellowed. “Let me at least get you a cup of wine to warm your bones before the journey home, huh.” The guards snickered. “See? We are decent fellows.” Gums looked to the gate tender, Sam, and said, “Bring him some wine.”
The boy ran out with a pitcher and a mug. Without acknowledging their friendship, Sam handed Montague the mug and poured a dark red wine into it; still no eye-contact. Under the mug, Montague felt a small piece of paper. By the anxious look on Sam’s face, it was obvious that he didn’t want the guards to know about the transaction. Was Sam trying to tell him that the wine was drugged or poisoned? Montague wondered. But the report of a dead farmer at the gates of the capital of Men would stir more trouble for the simple-minded guards than they would want.
His thirst overrode his caution. Furtively, Montague lifted the note with his fingers, up his sleeve into the fold of his homemade wool coat and chugged the sweet plum liquor. As hope faded, the farmer chose to let fate determine his future.
After a few sips, Sam pulled the mug from Montague’s mouth as he was drinking and ran back inside the gate.
“Now off with ya. Better luck with the spring harvest, farmer,” Gums said.
On the way home Montague stopped at the broken wagon to see if Earl was still wandering around somewhere close, but there was no sign of him. He’s better off free than living with me now.
There were no immediate effects from the wine: hallucinations, sudden blackouts, or any illnesses whatsoever. If anything, it helped numb the pain. Fortunately, it wasn’t poisoned. Or maybe, he thought, he was a dead man already. He’d woken up late, crashed his wagon, been ambushed by wild pigs, and failed to deliver his precious herbs. Not even a trace of them were left, the swine had eaten every leaf, stem, root, and seed. The possibility of losing everything now became a probability; his land, his home, his animals. Without speaking to the king for a pardon, he couldn’t pay his taxes and The Temple would seize his land.
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