Blood of War

by Remi Michaud

  There were perhaps half as many folk left as when Galbin was in charge. Valik said it was because the farm had never needed so many people, that Galbin had been wasting money and valuable resources keeping so many clothed and housed and fed. “The rest have to work a little harder but after all it's an easy job and they get far more from me than other earls would provide. Did you know that? I'm an earl. Yep, found the paperwork in my father's stuff.”

  Oh, but he was a smug bastard. There passed an instant, one that Valik did not know about, when he almost lost his teeth.

  But Jurel had the notion that Valik simply wanted to keep the extra for himself. As for the whole business of Valik's ascension to the noble cast, well, perhaps he was or perhaps he was just blowing hot air. Either would not surprise Jurel terribly much. The farm was a large one as farms go and Galbin had always had money. It was not so hard to think that Galbin had been a nobleman—albeit a minor one—but true to form, Galbin had never put much stock in the title; it was the first time Jurel had ever heard of it (he wondered momentarily if Daved had known) and true to form, Valik would wave his title under everyone's noses.

  As they wandered, they passed folk about their daily tasks. Most contented themselves with shooting cautious, curious glances toward Jurel before going on their way. Those few who dared to speak, to presume to ask questions, were harshly reprimanded by Valik, “Have you not enough to do that you can accost your lord's guest? I will tell Merlit to find ways to fill your time. Now begone!”

  Jurel was dismayed by what he saw that morning. The main barn was a shambles. Besides the damaged roof, the stables were filthy, the food troughs looked more like middens, and although the stench of manure had always been present, it was much stronger than it ever had been. Indeed, it seemed as though the place had not been properly cleaned in months.

  Valik proudly showed him the project he had begun—or rather the project he had assigned others to begin. The smithy was being moved from the workshop to the area of the barn that had been damaged by the storm. He showed Jurel where a hole had been dug under the broken section of the roof, showed where the forge would go, and where shelving was being prepared.

  “And I can save time and money because there's already a place for the chimney,” Valik crowed pointing to the hole in the roof.

  “Why are you moving the smithy at all?”

  “The existing smithy and workshop will be torn down. I'm having a guest house built. It's only proper after all. Every nobleman should have a guest house.”

  Of course. Because the farm saw so many visitors. In Jurel's ten and more years on the farm, only merchants had come calling and they never stayed longer than it took to fill their carts. The only guest Jurel could remember spending the night was an old itinerant healer who had been more than content to sleep in a hayloft.

  That did not even begin to touch on the real problem. The animals that remained would suffer under the constant heat and fumes that spewed from the forge, and if there was ever a fire—the workshop had been rebuilt when Jurel was six because of one—well what would happen to them then? Did Valik have an evacuation plan? Did he care? Of course not. Why should he?

  Their next stop on the tour was the silo. Again, Jurel was sickened. Trig had been generous in his assessment. The stocks were dangerously low. What remained would barely see them through to the next reaping. What remained was crawling with pests and mold. Jurel asked Valik what they would do when the food ran out.

  “Oh I've already ordered some from Tack. Shipment should be in within the next few days.” He waved at the stores that remained. “My employees will have all this—I know, I know. I'm too generous.”

  Aghast, Jurel did his best to hide his disgust. Never had Galbin ever had to buy stores; even during that dreadful drought, when a goodly portion of the crops had withered to dust, Galbin had been able to see them through. The farm had always provided them all with more than they needed.

  The living quarters were in a state too. The windows had all been removed, replaced with rough boards. “Why should peasants need windows?” Valik asked in surprise when Jurel commented on it. The floors were bare earth, the boards having been torn up and stored for future construction. “They work all day in the dirt. Surely they can sleep in it,” was Valik's explanation. The cots, previously feather stuffed and surprisingly comfortable, could barely be called pallets. Old straw poked from under ratty blankets. The back rooms, the ones that had been reserved for families had been removed. There was still a wall that separated the two rooms because, as Valik pointed out, there were still women. The men and women were strictly prohibited from intermingling.

  “Why just last week, I threw out a randy fool and his hussy when there were rumors that she was with child,” Valik said with growing heat. “I'm not going to feed bloody useless mouths on my farm. Let some other sucker do that. They can come back when their kiddies can make some useful contribution around here.”

  Suddenly, Jurel perceived what was wrong with the farm beyond its atrocious state of disrepair. As they walked from place to place, he had only seen three children, the same three that had been there when he had lived there, the same three who had been too young to join with the older group. Two of them could have been no more than five yet they were bustling with their own list of chores. The third was perhaps two or three years old and followed her mother around like a puppy, watching everything her mother did while the woman explained and described the duties that would be expected of her when she grew older.

  It seemed that children were not allowed at the pond, or in the fields anymore. Unless duty took them there. Galbin must have been rolling over in his grave.

  Next, they stopped at Daved's cabin.

  “This is Merlit's place now. He's my right hand. I would have probably preferred to have Shenk but someone gutted him,” said Valik with a stony glare.

  Jurel ignored it. He was too busy trying to come to grips with the fact that his home was now occupied by a cutthroat. It might have been better if this place had become a brothel. He warred with himself. A part of him wanted to enter his home. A part of him wanted to see if there was anything left of his old life. Another part snorted, told him that there would be nothing but heartache if he went in there. His experience in Killhern decided him. He would keep his curiosity unsatisfied and this last memory intact. Yet when he turned away, there was a sickening wrench in his guts. A terrible feeling of life and memory slipping into an endless abyss. He struggled to choke back his tears, to harden himself ever more.

  “I've seen enough.” His voice was gruff, harder than he had intended.

  “What's the matter?” Valik asked, all solicitous, all oily, smarmy, full of insincere worry. “Are you feeling a little squeamish? A little scared? As I recall you had a tendency to be a little on the chicken side.”

  Once again Jurel battled the urge to punch him in the mouth. Trig shuffled uncomfortably and Ingirt dropped her gaze to her feet.

  “I'm fine,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  “Why don't we head on over to the house and have some breakfast and a nice drink. Will that help?”

  Valik continued his grating chatter, reveling in the discomfort he caused as they made their way to Valik's house. He pointed out more projects and 'improvements' that he had commissioned.

  “I've finally found something to make the men useful through the winter months. The woods are to be cut down and I'm going to have the pond dammed and drained. That should be almost done by next summer. I'll have another whole field up there though I'm undecided what to do with it yet. I thought of raising horses. Nice sleek things. Ones fit for a man of my stature. Maybe I'll build a proper stable and make it my riding field.”

  Jurel stopped listening at that point. Instead, he focused on the well. It was the same well, made of the same stone that he always remembered, but the opening was covered with a hinged steel lid and it was secured with a heavy lock.

  “Of course,” Valik said when Ju
rel pointed it out. “I always thought my father was a fool for letting just anyone take his water. He was a fool about a lot of things.”

  Ingirt hissed. Glancing over his shoulder, Jurel saw some of the fire that seemed to have been snuffed out by her idiot son quickly smothered under her new meekness.

  “Now I charge my employees by the bucket,” Valik continued, ignoring his mother. “It's a fair price I charge and all I have to do is dock their pay. Keeps them honest.”

  Coming here was a bad idea.

  Too late to do anything about it now. He was there, he was bound to his course. He would see it through and leave as soon as propriety allowed. After he saw certain people.

  The house—Galbin's house; Jurel would never be able to think of it as Valik's house—was a revelation. New paint gleamed so that it looked to be made of pearls or alabaster depending on how the light came. The roof was newly tiled with baked red clay. The chimneys—three now—had been rebuilt with brick and the shutters were the same color. The front door had been widened; it was big enough to accommodate a horse and wagon. The veranda, which had always been made of wood, was constructed of granite, with delicately wrought iron rails, inlaid with gold star-burst patterns.

  “You like it?” Valik asked. “I'm just starting. This place is so rustic. So pathetic. By the time I'm done with it, it's going to be a palace.”

  Jurel could offer no more than a grunt.

  They entered the wide doors—which had been opened by two servants who bowed when Valik sailed by. The servants were dressed in red and blue livery. Jurel stared wide-eyed at them as he passed but they kept their gazes firmly fixed to the floor. He recognized neither of them. They passed several more servants on their way to the dining room and Jurel could not help but shake his head sadly. Valik ignored everyone as he strode, every inch the lord of the manor. They passed under three gold and crystal chandeliers, fine things, of good craftsmanship, the light of the dozens of candles each supported sparking through the dangling crystals underneath. Each one likely cost more than one of the farmers earned in a lifetime. The floors reflected the candlelight, gleaming with new and newly polished wood, mahogany inlaid with lighter oak to create a repeating pattern of stars similar to the ones that decorated the veranda railing. The walls were still wainscoting and plaster, but somehow Jurel knew that would not last much longer.

  They were met at the dining room door by one of the servants, a darkly complected young man with fidgety fingers. He bowed and extended a hand.

  “Your table is ready, My Lord. Service will begin at your word.”

  “Of course the word is given, you dunce. Why isn't everything waiting for me? Do I have to do everything around here?”

  The young man went pale and kept his eyes lowered. “My apologies, My Lord. We were not certain when you would be returning. I will see to it at once.”

  “It had better be sitting on the table before Pol has time to settle my napkin, you idiot. Get out of my face.”

  Jurel cast an apologetic glance in the young man's direction which went unnoticed. The young man was already scuttling away.

  “Fools. The whole lot of them,” Valik growled. “Can't find good help anywhere these days.”

  Valik took his place at the head of the table, in a chair of gold-gilt wood with red satin cushions. Ingirt sat to his right, and Trig sat to her right. Valik indicated the other end of the table, once Ingirt's place.

  “Oh, I didn't tell you yet,” Valik said, lifting a golden wine goblet. “You remember those three kids that we fought down at the pond—and by 'we' I mean, of course, Trig, Darren and me. Come to think of it, even Wag wanted to join in, even though he was just a little pipsqueak. Do you remember them? Sure you do. Anyway, it seems they're all grown up now and they were working on that neighboring farm. I got some very interesting information. It seems that farm, and a couple others, are owned by my family too—that is to say, by me. My grandfather rented it out to some friend of his for a ridiculously low price saying that he couldn't farm all that land by himself. Of course I increased the rent to a more suitable level. Much to the dismay of the current tenants.” Valik laughed. “Anyway, those three were still working there and when I found out about it, I knew I had to make things right. So this past month, I called them here and told them that under no circumstance were they to remain on my land for another night.” Valik laughed again. “Oh you should have seen their faces. It was priceless.”

  Throughout his telling, he kept a sharp eye on Jurel. Apparently, what he saw made him happy. But frankly, though the story did dismay Jurel, it was something else that had his eyes popping from their sockets. Standing in the door, silver platter in hand, eyes as wide as his and as blue as he remembered, her hair flowing lush and full like fine-spun gold, wearing an apron and a dress of blue and red that was too tight, stood Erin.

  Something inside, something dormant, stirred, uncoiled restlessly in the back of his thoughts and down to the pit of his guts. As he sat, too flummoxed to do more than stare, time seemed to reverse itself, to unravel the past year in a blur before his eyes faster and faster, through terror and boredom, rage and uncompromised bliss until it seemed he was standing in a farm's living quarters while fiddle music played, while good folk danced and laughed and dined. It seemed he was standing there, gazing into the sky blue eyes of this woman as she reached up. As he smelled her sweet scent and felt her soft tautness under his hands. As her lips brushed his...

  It was she who broke the spell. She broke the contact, jerkily setting down her platter with a clatter on the long table, in front of Valik. Then she bustled from the room with not a sound.

  Valik eyed Jurel, smiling a mysterious smile. He picked up a little bell that sat on the table beside him and shook a tinkling ring from it. Soon, the young man from the door reached his side and bent low as Valik whispered into his ear. Then he was gone.

  “I suppose you were hoping to get a look at her, eh?” Valik gloated. His voice seemed to come from a long way off, down a tunnel, though his eyes were clear enough, sharp and calculating. “Well, she's the head maid now that old Marta's been sent out to pasture. She got too old did our dear old Marta. Couldn't pull her weight anymore. I had to send her on her way. A shame really. She made the best honey pies.”

  He continued to ramble, continued to detail the suffering on the farm caused by his ruthlessness and his depravities—though he would see them only as the good works of a landowner—and Jurel stopped listening. Instead he turned inward, trying to follow that which had awakened in him, like following fox tracks through a dense undergrowth of briars and brambles.

  He heard not one word that Valik said which was just as well. As a matter of fact, he saw and heard nothing until the dining room door opened again and, covered head to toe with smears of black soot, Darren stepped in.

  “Ah Darren,” Valik said. “Pleased you could make it. Come in, come in. We have much catching up to do, we old friends.”

  Darren stared at Jurel, trembling. Valik smiled. Jurel suppressed the urge to knock Valik's teeth out.

  Chapter 34

  He sat on the shore of his pond, staring at the water that rolled gently, that lapped quietly at the reeds and the rocks, and he mulled over all that had happened that morning, all that had been said. As he sat picking at a reed, peeling hair-like strands of green from the fleshy stalk, he tried to keep himself bottled up. No easy thing. There had been a lot of news. Some of it had had the same effect on him as a horse's kick.

  The afternoon sun seemed dark to him though it was only just past its zenith; it was a white-hot ball that beat mercilessly at his shoulders. The air was heavy, oppressive, without any discernible movement so that the world was a great furnace. It seemed that, though the season was winding down toward autumn, summer still had some fight left in it.

  He did not feel it, really. So much had happened, so much had been said at breakfast, that his entire being was focused on sorting it all out. Of course Valik had enjoyed it all.
He would. Things had been going badly enough but after Darren's arrival, it had all spiraled out of control. Talk had centered more or less on Erin for a while, and Jurel had been hard pressed to keep himself from murdering Valik.

  “Oh she was good for a tumble now and again but she's a maid and I'm a nobleman. I can't marry a maid! But I could certainly get her to clean my pipe if you take my meaning.”

  When Valik had said that, everything in the dining room had gone so very still, like a storm's eye. Jurel had glared bloody death at the bloody oaf, his fists clenched at his sides, Darren had lowered his head, glower in his lap, Ingirt's lips had pursed and two bright spots appeared high on her cheeks. Valik, well Valik simply smiled his infuriatingly smug smile. You like that, don't you? If it had not been for Ingirt's intercession, “Please don't do this. Not here,” Jurel would have jumped across the table and torn his head off.

  “Jurel?”

  Lost in the tumult of thoughts, he did not hear the approaching footsteps. He jolted upright and spun to face the newcomer.

  “Hello, Erin,” he finally croaked when his throat unlocked.

  “I'm sorry, Jurel. I wish you didn't have to find out that way.”

  “What? No! It's fine.” He plastered a great big smile on his face hoping against hope that there was some part of it that was convincing. “As a matter of fact, congratulations. You and Darren. That's great. I should have said that earlier. I was just surprised. And Valik was being...well...”

  “Valik was being Valik,” Erin responded with a brittle edge.

  “What are you doing here? Won't his lordship,” he imbued that with all the scorn he could muster, “be angry?”

  “I don't care about him. We're leaving soon anyway. As soon as Darren earns his masters papers from his father. We're certain it will be this winter some time. As soon as the first thaw of spring comes, we'll be gone.”

  “So how have you been?”

  Erin's back stiffened and incongruously, her eyes lowered. When she spoke, her voice was level. As level as planed wood. “It's been difficult. I'm certain Valik mentioned what he did to me.”