by Barb Hendee
Homeward:
The Keepers
Barb Hendee
T·N·D·S
Tales from the world of
the Noble Dead Saga
Copyright
Barb and J.C. Hendee / NobleDead.org
First Edition, August 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Barb and J.C. Hendee.
ALL RIGHTS RESEVED.
Design, layout, and cover art by J.C. Hendee.
ASIN: B008UDGK8U
BNID: 2940014827027
eISBN: 9780985561642
ISBN-10: 0985561645
ISBN-13: 9780985561642
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior contractual or written permission of the copyright owner of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or deceased, businesses establishments, events, or locales is entirely incidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
The Keepers
Other Works The Noble Dead Saga
Tales from the world of the Noble Dead Saga
The Vampire Memories Series
The Keepers
Alexi Korovich, the young vassal lord of the keep above Chemestúk village, grew more desperate each night, and Mercedes, his pretty wife, had become a shadow of her former self.
If only they could go one night… one night without being tortured by the spirit of these dank halls.
The two of them had taken refuge outside in the night air, high atop the single tower turret of the keep: one of the few places the spirit had not yet appeared.
How had everything gone so wrong so quickly?
Had it only been two moons since Alexi believed himself born under a lucky star? Had it only been two moons since the assignment to this keep, its village, and its five outlying fiefs had been dropped into his lap like a shining, unexpected gift?
As third son of a minor baron allied to Prince Rodêk of the house of Äntes in the nation of Droevinka, Alexi had often feared for his future. He was certainly no born soldier, and too often, choosing a military path was the only option for third sons. Marriage prospects were even bleaker. But to Alexi’s shock, two moons ago Lord Malbek, chancellor to Prince Rodêk, had offered him the vassal lordship of Chemestúk Keep—along with one quarter of the taxes collected from its surrounding fiefs.
Of course rumors still abounded as to why the House of Äntes had been unable to keep a vassal there for nearly twenty years. Whispers even suggested that some of the men appointed to the place had left within a moon of arriving.
But Alexi paid those rumors no heed and accepted the position… gratefully.
Almost immediately following his acceptance, he received an offer of the hand of Mercedes, youngest daughter of Baron Oblonsky, second cousin to the prince’s wife. A modest dowry was involved, but it was far more than Alexi ever expected. As soon as he met Mercedes, he accepted Baron Oblonsky’s offer without reservation. She was slightly plump, with reddish-blond hair, pale skin, and a friendly expression. When she smiled at him, the smile reached her eyes.
Alexi knew he was not a man to turn female heads. With a slight build, a hooked nose, and almost colorless light brown hair, he’d never have enough facial hair to grow a beard.
Mercedes did not appear to notice any of this.
Just speaking with her the first time, he thought himself the most fortunate young man in all of Droevinka. He married her as soon as the ceremony could be arranged, and the two of them—along with a small contingent of guards—had set off from the bustling city of Enêmûsk, heading for their new home and arriving on the fourth day just past dusk.
That had been their last night of happiness.
Now, they crouched together in the darkness at the top of the open turret and whispered prayers to whatever gods might listen.
But even their own guards had deserted them several nights ago.
He and Mercedes had no servants, as no one from the village of Chemestúk would agree to work here, no matter how much money was offered. Alexi and Mercedes dressed themselves and prepared their own meals.
Had he or she eaten today? He couldn’t remember, but thankfully, there was no rain tonight.
“Maybe the guards were not wrong,” she whispered to him. “Maybe we should run too? My mother might believe us and counsel my father to help you gain another position?”
Was that even possible? Alexi stared at her through the dim light—for they dared burn only one small candle lantern. No matter what happened in this terrible place, he’d not once considered leaving. He’d been given the chance of a lifetime, and he’d been determined to stay.
“Another position?” he asked blankly. That had not occurred to him, especially if he failed here.
Mercedes nodded.
Perhaps she was right… and her mother might believe their wild stories and not blame them for taking flight?
“You think she would help us?” he asked.
“She might, but if she won’t, I know my eldest brother will take us in. He has always protected me…. But we cannot stay here, Alexi.”
A tentative hope began to grow in Alexi. Could they truly leave this dark place—was it that simple? His own father and brothers would be no help to them, so did he dare believe that Mercedes’ family might be any kinder?
“Mercedes…” he began, but then the night air grew suddenly chill, until his teeth clicked together.
“Oh, no,” Mercedes whispered, shivering with her arms wrapped around herself. “He’s found us.”
The wailing started before they saw anything, but the sound echoed faintly from the archway at the crest of the stone stairs leading downward through the tower.
Alexi quickly struggled up to his feet, realizing that in their frightened rush to hide, they’d not remembered that the top of the turret had only one way out: back through the archway and down the stairs.
The spaces between the stone “teeth” or merlons of the turret were wide enough to pass through, but then what? It was a long fall to the ground below.
They were trapped.
Mercedes’ eyes widened with fear, and Alexi felt helpless to protect her. How did one fight a spirit?
Always before, when the ghost appeared, they’d had someplace to run. This was the first time they’d allowed themselves to be cornered. Perhaps they were too exhausted to think clearly?
“What do we do?” she asked in panic.
He had no answer. The air grew colder, the wailing grew louder, and Alexi braced himself for what was to come.
A semi-transparent soldier appeared in the archway. Still wailing, he floated out into the open air atop the turret. He always looked the same, with shaggy dark hair, a few days of growth on his face, and wearing leather armor and a sword.
Mercedes gasped.
The spirit—the soldier—came closer, and Alexi did the only thing he could. He stepped away from Mercedes, backing up and hoping the ghost would follow him and give her a chance to bolt for the archway.
As always, the ghost’s eerie cry echoed through the night, and with a pleading expression, he motioned with his arms, trying to draw Alexi forward.
Alexi would not go, for he knew what this thing wanted. His mother had told him tales of the dead, and the life they sought to steal and consume from the living. Retreating farther, he was both
terrified and relieved when it followed him, waving its hands in the air as if to call him back. Alexi took two more steps back.
“Mercedes!” he shouted. “Run for the archway.”
He quickly pulled back even farther, hoping to hold the ghost’s attention with his rapid movement. Then, too late, he felt nothing beneath his right boot heel.
Mercedes screamed as Alexi lost sight of her ever-widening eyes.
He flailed wildly in falling, trying to grab at anything in the dark as air rushed up around him. There was nothing.
Mercedes screamed again, her voicing sounding far away.
That was the last thing Alexi Korovich ever heard.
· · · · ·
Nizhyn village, Northern Droevinka
Two Years Later
Jan was bored.
“Play something for us while we lay out supper,” Nadja, his mother, told him.
He glanced at her in surprise. Although they were home, in a circular wattle-and-daub dwelling with a thatched room, they were not alone.
His mother had engaged another village girl, named Tansy, to help out around the home. Although Tansy could hardly be called “pretty,” with her thick waist and stained teeth, Jan’s mother knew only too well his penchant for charming any girl brought in for help. She’d warned him not to use any of his tricks this time.
Playing a forlorn tune on the fiddle was one of Jan’s best, more indirect, ways for making girls fall in love with him.
Arching one eyebrow, he asked, “Truly?”
“Yes,” his mother answered as her eyes narrowed. “But make it something lively and bright.”
Unlike Tansy, his mother could be called pretty—even beautiful. With shimmering black hair and a dusky smooth complexion, she was lithe and slender, though well figured in her red dress tied in at the waist with a wildly patterned, orange paisley sash. She loved her jewelry, much of which had been gifted to her by her family. Often, as now, she wore a bracelet of ruddy metal that wound up her forearm in a mix of copper and brass. That adornment depicted a detailed engraving of twining birds with long tail plumes and flecks of green stone for eyes.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, smiling as he lifted his fiddle and bow from where they lay on the next stool.
Tansy smiled shyly at him. She was about fifteen, and he knew he’d need to put out little effort to lure her. After all, she was already half in love with him.
At the age of twenty, he resembled his mother to a striking degree: slender, with even features and coal-black hair that hung to his shoulders in a wild, unruly mass. His dusky complexion stood out in the villages filled with milk-pale peasants. Unlike their drab clothing, he wore russet breeches with high boots and a sea-green baggy shirt with the cuffs rolled halfway up his arms—and he sported three silver hoops in one ear.
He was very good with his fiddle, and the instrument’s finish had long since worn away at the base where his chin so often rested.
“And what should I play, Tansy?” he asked teasingly, as he couldn’t help himself. “Something romantic?”
She blushed and nearly dropped the plates in her hand.
The interior of their home was better furnished than most in the village, with white curtains on the windows, a solid maple table with matching chairs, and colorfully glazed pottery dishes. Tansy wouldn’t be thanked for dropping any of those dishes.
“Jan,” his mother warned, frowning at him. “Something lively… or go outside by yourself.”
With little desire to go outside by himself, he lifted the fiddle to his shoulder and pinned its base with his chin. As he was about to touch his bow to the strings, his father, Zupan Cadell, walked through the door.
“Is supper ready?” his father asked without even a greeting.
Jan lowered the fiddle. His father was not a great admirer of music.
“Almost,” Nadja answered. “We’re just laying it out.”
Cadell grunted and sat down, clearly exhausted—which caused Jan a pang of guilt. He probably should have been outside all afternoon helping to plant wheat. But Jan had inherited little by way of nature, inclinations, or appearance from his father.
Cadell, as zupan and leader of all of the villages, was a barrel of a man with pale skin, fading freckles, and cropped red hair peppered with gray flecks. He wore brown trousers and a brown shirt. His fingernails were forever stained dark, like his boots, from working the land.
“Here,” Nadja said, hurrying to him with a bowl. “I made mutton stew with potatoes and early pea pods.”
Cadell nodded. “Thank you, dear.” Mutton stew with early pea pods was one of his favorite dishes.
For all his gruff ways, Jan’s father adored his mother and made no secret of it. His feelings for Jan were more… complicated. Attributes the zupan found desirable in a wife were quite different from those he might wish for in a son.
To make matters worse, the situation in the five fiefs surrounding the keep above Chemestúk village was growing more and more uncertain. Jan knew this weighed heavily on his father.
Due to an unfortunate mix of blight and locust in one year, followed by flooding the next, crops had been beyond poor for the past two years. Had the villagers been charged their normal taxes, many would have starved this past winter, but as yet, no one from Chemestúk Keep had come demanding taxes. From what Jan understood, no one had been assigned as vassal lord.
In part, this was a good thing. As zupan, Cadell could make judgments over small matters, such as when one peasant had sold a mule to another, claiming the beast was five years old, only to have the poor creature die of advanced age less than a moon later. Cadell had ordered the price of the mule be repaid. But larger matters involving land division or disputes among the farmers required judgments by the appointed lord of the keep—and there was no lord. Few vassals had ever stayed long, but eventually a new one was always appointed.
Sooner or later, Prince Rodêk would assign a new vassal lord. It seemed inconceivable that he hadn’t done so before now.
Jan knew his father was pinning all his hopes on a much better crop this year, and so far, for the planting season, the weather had cooperated. Cadell cared deeply about his people and worked from dawn to dark here in his home village during the planting and the harvest. Whenever possible, he also visited the other villages to see how he might assist them.
Jan’s father was a good man, and Jan often wished that he, himself, cared for the peasants here as much as his father did. But his favorite time of year was always just after the harvest. In early autumn, his mother would take him to spend two or three moons traveling with her people, the Móndyalítko, “the world’s little children,” though more often others called them tzigän—vagabond thieves. Jan lived for those few scant moons.
It was the only time he ever felt like he was home, like he belonged. Rolling through villages and towns of the land in covered wagons—that also served as home—filled him with a joy he couldn’t express. For that part of each year, he made his living with his fiddle or by telling fortunes or amusing locals with card tricks that made him appear a veritable magician. It felt natural to him. It felt right. After that, returning to the village of Nizhyn left him feeling suffocated… and bored.
“How was planting today?” Nadja asked, shooing Tansy off to fetch Cadell a mug of ale.
“Good,” he answered, taking several bites in quick succession. “Two fields finished… though it would have gone faster with more help.” He glanced at Jan but said nothing overtly accusing.
Jan felt another sharp stab of guilt. His father never ordered him to do anything but rather hoped he would offer to help on his own.
He held out his fiddle. “Sorry, Father. I was practicing and lost track of time.”
Before Cadell said anything more, the sound of pounding hoof beats came from outside their little home. As none of the villagers rode swift horses, Cadell looked at his wife in alarm, and then stood up and headed for the door. Jan followed.
> The village spread out around them. There were about fifty circular huts with thatched roofs, a few shops, a smithy, and a sturdy log dwelling that served as a common house. All of the small buildings circled around an open central space used for market days and other gatherings.
Six riders cantered their mounts straight toward Jan and his father. Cadell stiffened slightly, though his expression remained calm. Only someone who knew him well would have seen his tension.
Five of the riders were dressed in chain armor and bright red surcoats emblazoned with the black silhouette of a rearing stallion. The leader wore no armor and was dressed in fine breeches, polished boots, a quilted tunic, and a light wool cloak. As he drew closer and pulled up his horse, Jan could see the man was in his late forties with a close trimmed beard.
Dismounting, he asked instantly, “Zupan, have I interrupted your supper?”
At least he was polite.
“No, I’d finished, Lord Malbek. How may I be of service?”
Jan nearly started. He had never before seen Lord Malbek, though he knew the name. This was the chancellor to Prince Rodêk of the Äntes. Jan wasn’t even aware that his father had met such a man, but apparently the two knew each other.
Malbek gestured toward the door of the hut. “Could we speak inside?”
Cadell hesitated for only a breath. “Of course, my lord.”
The politics of Droevinka were different from other nations. Rather than being ruled by a hereditary king, Droevinka was a land of many princes, each one the head of a noble house that ruled multiple fiefdoms. But they all served a single Grand Prince, and a new one was elected every nine years by the gathered heads of the noble houses. In spite of occasional clashes between houses, this system had served the country well for over a hundred years, perhaps longer. At present, Prince Rodêk of the Äntes had recently come into rule.
For Jan and his family, Prince Rodêk was more than Grand Prince of their country. The Äntes held and ruled the greater portion of the nation’s northern lands, including Chemestúk and its keep and all other villages of the five fifes of the surrounding areas. The combined villages therein and unto themselves was called a zupanesta. Cadell was the zupan of those villages… which only meant he was the one with the most authority among the peasants and the first to answer to higher authorities for any problems.
