by Tom Lloyd
He was younger than Calath had expected. The marshal guessed at no more than twenty-five winters, but it was hard to estimate after such a battering. He’d have hardly been a man when whatever madness it was fell upon Thistledell. Calath felt a stab of pity for the boy, until he remembered the tax collector’s report he’d read back at his club in Narkang. Limbs had been sawn off, bones gnawed. They had reason to fear him.
‘When was he beaten?’ asked Derran suddenly.
‘When they realised who he was, he tried to escape. He’d been sleeping in the dormitory and apparently had some sort of nightmare. Vorte there can tell you more specifically.’
Alscap pointed to a hard-faced man with a bulbous nose and a thick beard that half-obscured a permanent scowl. He was older than the others, nearing fifty winters, but as nervous as the boys as he began to speak in a deep gravely drawl.
‘He woke us up early, shoutin’ all sorts in his dream. Started screamin’ on about blood and buryin’ the village. We thought it was just a bad dream; he’s always been a quiet one, moody like. But then he started on about Thistledell and we realised what he was on about.
‘Then he woke and saw us, but I don’t think he was all the way awake. When Mijok here asked why he’d said “Thistledell”, he said it was his home. He realised what he’d said pretty quick and made a jump for the window, but I caught hold of him. Bastard put up one hell of a fight, but there was three of us. Mijok slammed his head against the wall and he went down. We dragged him here to lock him in and fetched Master Kote.’
The man stopped, looking nervous under Derran’s unblinking gaze and Calath couldn’t help but wonder whether they had met in a professional capacity before.
‘Thank you,’ said the magistrate after a time. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and attended his nose before continuing. Calath knew it to be a nervous habit, but the other men there marvelled at his cool demeanour, that Derran could be calmly taking his time before returning his attention to the monster. Eventually he did look back to Fynn.
‘So, you’ve heard the charge and had time to gather your thoughts. What say you?’
The man looked up, his face a battleground of fear and shame. Looking from one face to another he found disgust in that of the count, the grooms could not bear the sight of their former friend and Derran’s was the stony mask of a man passing sentence. His eyes lingered on Calath, who could not drive all sympathy from his heart at that plaintive face. Fynn said nothing to him, he made no appeal but betrayed a flicker of wonder before returning to the magistrate.
‘It’s true,’ he said at last.
The words were no more than a whisper, but only Derran did not start at the sound.
‘You understand what your admission entails? The law demands that you be taken and hung by the neck until you are dead, without delay.’
‘I understand. It’s time to stop running.’
With that the wretched figure buried his head in his arms. Derran looked from the count to Calath, a strain of relief at last visible.
‘Well then, we should not delay if we are to keep this between us. I hope your grooms understand that this matter is not to be discussed ever again?’
Alscap nodded. ‘They worked together for six months, they were his friends. To protect my stock I’ll keep them on, to protect themselves they’ll stay and be silent.’
Fervent nods greeted those words and so Derran eased himself up with the help of his walking stick.
‘Then we will need a noose.’ It sounded as if he hardly believed the words himself but had to press on before his nerve failed him.
‘Wait,’ said Calath suddenly. ‘I should take his account.’
‘What?’ cried Alscap in horror. ‘What possible reason could you have for that?’
‘Several, in fact.’ Calath could hardly believe his own words, but the look in Fynn’s eyes had stirred something within him and he knew the king would also want to know more.
‘First of all, we don’t know what happened in Thistledell. There are very few things the king detests, but a lack of knowledge is chief among those. We may never have another chance to understand what happened there, what evil walked our lands and perhaps might again. Secondly, for my research, be this madness or the work of daemons.’
The others looked horrified at the notion, but Alscap’s protests had stopped short at the mention of the king. If the marshal was truly known to the king, then he must have a function of sorts no matter how feeble and protected he appeared. The king had no time for people he could not use.
‘Very well, but at your own risk.’ Alscap looked like he was trying to read Calath’s expression, but the marshal was so confused in himself his face betrayed little.
‘Could you please leave us? And fetch me some paper and ink?’
Derran arched an eyebrow, but the count raised a hand to silence him. His face betrayed new-found respect, but in case Calath was speaking out of bravado he laid a caveat in his agreement.
‘If you’re sure, but we leave the door open and Mijok will be watching. You keep enough of a distance that Fynn’ll get a fork through the ribs before he can harm you.’
Neither Calath, nor the burly young groom looked entirely happy with the suggestion, but they made no comment and the others retreated out into the light. The call of hunting horns in the distance reminded Calath that life was continuing oblivious and sparked an ache in his heart. He didn’t know whether it was good or bad, that so much went unnoticed, or that the world could continue so easily.
Calath didn’t move until Kote had returned with several sheets of parchment, a quill and a small inkwell. The marshal kept his eyes on the motionless man ahead, part of him comparing distances to see whether he was truly safe. Once Kote had retreated, Calath used his good leg to kick a chair towards the condemned man. It skidded for a yard before the packed earth floor upended it at Fynn’s feet. The man cautiously raised his head and risked a look at Calath.
‘Sit.’
Fynn looked suspicious for a while, glancing warily at Mijok and the long steel prongs his former friend held ready. With a grimace, Fynn lifted himself up, gingerly touching fingers to his temple and lip, before righting the chair.
‘You’ll be dead within the hour, probably well before that. All I offer you now is the chance to put history straight – whether you choose to tell the truth is up to you. Don’t think this will ever clear your name, if the king believes you, and I’ll tell you now I’ve never seen him misled, then perhaps a handful of men will see it.’
Fynn nodded, wincing. ‘I understand. What do you want to know?’
‘I want you to tell me what happened in Thistledell, what you did and why. Tell me in your own words, we have a little time.’
When Fynn had finished speaking, Calath sat in silence, staring down at the page he had not even touched with ink. Whether he could ever bring himself to write those words, Calath was unsure. Perhaps it would be better if they were never given form. At the silence, Count Alscap poked his head around the door, then motioned for Mijok to fetch the prisoner and bind his hands. The others didn’t enter and Fynn had time to meet Calath’s eyes.
‘Thank you.’
Calath nodded, unable to speak. Fynn’s eyes were brimming with tears, but strangely he didn’t look afraid now. Calath took in his bearing and saw him as a changed man. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, or perhaps a curse.
The marshal sat there even as they all left. He had intended to go with Fynn and be with him to the last, but now he realised he didn’t have the strength, and in some way it was unnecessary. He had given the man a final gift and the prisoner walked calmly to his death. For his last few minutes Fynn would be himself. He had thrown off the taint that had followed him for years and there was nothing more he could be given beyond peace.
Calath hadn’t offered the man empty forgiveness, hadn’t said he understood. The crippled marshal had simply heard the tale of Thistledell and not hated the
man before him. He had still seen a human being sitting there instead, something he realised Fynn had not considered himself in years.
When Calath heard a faint snap from the adjoining stable, a solitary tear rolled down his face. Alscap and Derran returned with stony faces, both staring down at the blank page before the marshal.
‘Come, my friend,’ said the magistrate, helping Calath to his feet. ‘Let us get inside. It’s a grim day’s work but nothing brandy won’t cure I hope, and the company of Lady Meranna might restore some faith in the world to you.’
‘Meranna? A fine woman,’ joined Alscap, clapping a hand on Calath’s shoulder. He shook his head. ‘I’d have thought her too spirited for you before, but not now. His was a tale I never want to hear, whatever use the king might find for it.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll thank the Gods if some happiness comes out of today, if you want me to speak to Sir Pardel for you I’ll gladly do so. But brandy first, I think.’
Fynn’s Testimony
It’s been years since I could admit where I’m from. It feels good to be able to say the name again. After those years of running, I don’t fear it no more. Since I helped destroy the memory of Thistledell, I’ve lied every day o’ my life. Before I die I want to have one last day of truth. It won’t save me from the Dark Place, I know I’m damned but I— But you want to know what happened. Well, I’ll try.
From a village of near two hundred souls, sixteen lived to pull down the houses, tear up walls and paths, salt the fields and burn the bodies. We hoped we could erase the memory of what’d happened, make the world forget Thistledell had existed. How many of us remain I couldn’t tell you, I ran the one time I saw another, but I hope some have found peace. We can’t all be to blame. We were no different to the neighbouring villages.
It was the Coronation Festival. He was a minstrel. We didn’t think to ask why he was so far from a town for festival week, we were just glad to have him. Thistledell had a good reputation for merriment in the area. In the whole district no other village would claim to put on better entertainment, to have a grander spirit during feast days and festivals. We were proud o’ that. Not boastful, but we worked hard on our preparations, harder than any other village. Perhaps we thought his presence to be our just dues. I don’t remember now.
I was working in my father’s inn when he arrived at the door. He knew my name already, said he’d been told our village was a joyous place to spend festival. And it was. Thistledell was such a happy village, not wicked as some have said; not deserving of such a curse, just a happy place to grow up where people didn’t work too hard to enjoy life a little. Anyway, we were all so excited; it was going to be such a fine week. There were all manner of games, a different feast planned for each night, the king’s colours hung from every tree and building. Yes, the king’s colours. We might’ve been far from Narkang, but we were as loyal as you’ll find anywhere between the Three Cities. If I had a life to stake on it I’d not hesitate.
He wasn’t from around the shire, nor any Narkang suzerainty I’ve visited since. Whether he was from anywhere I don’t know. For years I thought he was Farlan, but I met a wagoneer from Perlir and I realised he couldn’t have been. His skin wasn’t so fair, and the accent like none I’ve ever heard. But we didn’t wonder too hard about that at the time, only about the tales he could tell us, the songs he’d know.
There was something about him that made us all like him. Straight away I mean, and not just the girls who thought he was the prettiest man they ever met. You took one look into those eyes, so black you almost thought they were just holes, and you couldn’t say no to him. You didn’t want to say no.
I … I don’t remember much o’ that time, only feelings. When I try to think about it, all I can remember is dread, and awfulness at what happened. I couldn’t remember what had gone on, who had done what, but I could taste the terrible things even if I couldn’t see what they were. The last thing I remember was standing at my father’s bar watching the minstrel sleep. There was a smile on his lips and he was snoring softly, but it sounded like music to me. And he was beautiful; did I tell you that? Not like a woman is, not enticing, just … beautiful. You could stand there all day and just stare at him; it made you feel that the world was a better place.
After that, I don’t know. Sometimes I dream of sitting down to eat or playing one of the games we had laid out, it almost seems normal them. But most are too terrible to say, just images – disgusting images. I get them when I’m awake sometimes, bad enough to make me sick when I’m working. I just have to squat down and hope no one is watching, mostly I blame it on the dogs bringing up something they’ve eaten.
I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you about him. I spent three years asking wherever I went and I never heard a word. He wasn’t a man people could forget, but it was as if he hadn’t even existed. I even checked every way he could have got to our village as best I could, asking children away from the village. I got chased off a few times, but not once met anyone who knew his name or saw his face. All I can tell you is when I think of his face, I see him standing on the village square, laughing and eating peaches. I’m sorry. The next thing I remember was when he had gone.
We woke up with a cold mist hanging over the whole village, but not thick enough to hide what I’ve dreamed about ever since. The unmen – hung from the big oak on the green with an apple in his mouth and his legs roasted underneath. The rooms of my father’s inn – each with a girl collared and leashed to the wall, blue tongues sticking out of their mouths and so much pain on their faces.
The wrestling pen – covered in bodies and limbs from the duels the foresters had played with their axes. The oxen, dead and stinking, cut and strung open and left to rot in the road.
And the children, oh the children … What happened to the children? The worst dreams are always of the children. Of the creatures that came from the forest. Of the feasts we shared with ghosts and daemons. In others we sold them to spirits and ghouls, I can see them licking their lips as they paid us in leaves. When I was working a few months back I had a sudden memory o’ four little girls out skipping, hand in hand, off into the forest – leaving a trail of blood while hungry eyes watched from the forest. We didn’t find a trace of most o’ the children. Those we did, I think they’d been fed to the dogs by their parents.
None of us could say what really happened, only that we needed to hide it, that we needed to make the world think we’d never existed. We all suspected; we all suspected what we did, but no one knew anything. We just sat there for hours before we could move. All I remembered was the sound of a flute; a song with no words and the stars looking down and laughing at us.
But whatever blame we bear, whatever evil came from within us, it was still the minstrel who brought it out. I can still hear his voice; can still see his face. They’re burned into my soul.
Oh, I forget nothing of Rojak.
VELERE’S FELL
My learned friend,
Knowing you as I do, I feel sure that the report I have copied below will be of great interest to yourself and certain fellows. I have no safe way to confirm any facts, but if it proves to be nothing more than a macabre tale I hope you will appreciate it on that standing.
This report bore seals of the highest secrecy; seals that bound the messenger, one Sir Daraz Tergev, to deliver it intact to the hand of the Menin lord himself, upon forfeit of his life.
— My Lord,
My life is forever yours, my words ever unworthy,
When this finds the favour of your hand I feel sure Numarik shall be conquered and Daraban within your sight. If Lady Fate is benevolent, she will see this to you before you see the pyres of our victory. What follows is the product of translated reports and witness accounts. They provide, at best, unsatisfactory conclusions, but it is beyond my power to exhume any more of the tale from the ruins of this place. Battle raged before we had even sighted Daraban’s walls – though perhaps madness and anarchy are more suitable terms. Much
of the city was destroyed or aflame when we arrived and only a handful of regiments resisted our entry into the city.
Needless to say we hold the city and your foolish Krann leads the revels and debauchery. While I lack your tribe’s noble blood, my heart is Menin; it revolts me to witness such abandon with impotent commands on my lips. Your Reavers pursue their orders with a feral lust, but currently they are the only regiment other than my own Huntsmen with a semblance of discipline. As we sighted the city I smelled something other than death on the breeze and my gathering of documents, as ordered, has borne out my instincts.
Commissioned report of Prefect Iliole following alleged occurrences in the border region known as Velere’s Fell
Having investigated the disappearances fully, I must conclude that the village of Three Stones has been taken by surprisingly bold Elven slavers. There is little more to do than send the remaining militia of Riverdam to deal with the situation. It is a disturbing tale but the impending threat to our borders overshadows all, the myth of the Menin Lord has given many over to madness and fantastic speculation.
The inquiry into this mystery was initiated by a pair of hunters who arrived at the gate of an outpost two weeks past. One has since died, unscathed but determined to deny himself both water and food. The other lives but his mind is damaged beyond hope. He is confined to a cell for his own safety after trying to scale the walls and walk to Numarik. The hunters spoke only in a fleeting, incoherent manner of what had happened in the Velere’s Fell region; of unholy screams in the night, of an army of ghosts, and ‘a plague that walked’ – all encountered as the pair travelled home to the village of Three Stones.
I am told it is a vile backwater at the best of times, or so the landowner would have me believe. For my part I have never heard of the place and was hardly aware that people lived in Velere’s Fell. I am advised that Three Stones is a recent settlement, the closest of a series of villages to that unremarkable hillock that lends its name to the region. I leave the significance of the name to more sober minds than the superstitious cretins surrounding me. What bearing such ancient history could have I do not know, but evidently it is enough to excite and terrify some.
