by Doug Kelly
“I know Olar and his family. I want to marry his daughter, Esina.”
Larn’s roaring laughter interrupted the seriousness of the conversation and did not allow Aton to finish what he had intended to say. When Larn calmed enough to speak, he asked Aton a question. “And for that he wants to kill you? He would have to kill every young man in his territory. What man wouldn’t want to marry a warlord’s beautiful daughter?” When he fully recovered from the perceived hilarity of Aton’s statement, he looked at his friend again and saw the somberness of his expression. What Aton had said was not a joke.
“Does she have feelings for you?”
“Yes, but her father doesn’t like me.”
“And for that you are sentenced to death?”
A moment of silence followed the question, and then Aton spoke solemnly. “He thinks that I murdered his other daughter, Malina.”
“Are you innocent?”
“Of course I am!” Aton had yelled loud enough that the occupants of the carts half way down the wagon train heard him. Their ears perked up to hear the lively conversation, but the monotonous clatter of creaking axles and wagon wheels jolting in deep ruts made that impossible.
“Of course you are, Aton…I didn’t mean it that way...I was just thinking out loud.”
“Lanzo Brill did it, and then he framed me for the crime. He used my own bow and arrow to kill her.”
“Brill?”
“Yes, Lanzo Brill,” replied Aton. “His father is Olar’s tax collector. The father is just as evil as the son. I wouldn’t doubt if his father had encouraged him to do it.”
After a moment of quiet reflection, Larn said, “I can remember when that happened. Riders bearing Olar’s crest came to Tarply asking if strangers from Oberlin had passed through our village. They offered a handsome reward for you. When our town got into financial trouble, I remembered that reward. Because of that, we all thought that Olar was a wealthy man. That’s why we went to him for credit. Now he’s a problem for us, too.”
“You can turn me in to Olar,” said Aton, jokingly. “You’ll be a rich man. Maybe he’ll forgive Tarply’s debt?”
“Never,” Larn replied sternly. “But why are you returning? Do you have a death wish? What if you’re recognized?”
Aton flipped the deep hood of his cloak over his head. “I have a beard now, and the shadow of my hood should conceal the rest of my face.” He removed the cowl. “I just want to see Esina again, and maybe find out how my family is doing. My father, Davin Matin, is a clan leader. I worry that Olar will take his unfounded anger out on my mother, Treva, and my cousin, Briand, along with my father.”
“Aton, I don’t mean to frighten you, but Trahan is more than a tax collector now. He’s a trusted advisor to Olar. He’s the person I spoke with about credit for my village. He has attained an elevated rank with the warlord.”
Aton groaned like a wounded animal, shook his head, and then said, “Olar favors Trahan for some reason. Trahan took advantage of that and influenced the warlord to consolidate some clans under his son’s name. Lanzo wants to be the warlord, and I think he’ll do anything to get the tittle, with his father right by his side, helping him every step of the way.”
“I knew going to Olar for help was a mistake, but I didn’t think we had any other options,” said Larn.
“It doesn’t matter now. The vile snake has already bitten you,” said Aton as he grimaced.
Larn sadly nodded his head, because Aton was correct.
“Trahan will structure the debt so that Tarply will never escape from it,” said Aton. “He will hold it over your neck like an executioner’s axe. After he feels that the village’s spirit is broken, he will offer Tarply military protection if the town agrees to align under the warlord.”
“Never! We have always been an independent clan.”
“If Tarply aligns with Olar, he’ll steal its assets, conscript the youth for war, and endlessly tax its treasury. He’ll take the town’s young men as soldiers to protect his dominion and never give anything back to help Tarply defend against another nomad attack.”
“The trade routes are open,” said Larn. “Business is better. We’ll pay our debt.”
“When?”
“Soon. I’m sure of it. We just need some more time.”
“What if Trahan demands immediate payment?”
Aton’s question was truthful and sobering. What if the warlord demanded money from a village that was still struggling its way back from an economic recession? Larn knew that he could not settle the loan yet, which he was sure included penalties, fees, and too much accrued interest. If Tarply did not quickly reimburse Olar for the letter of credit, the obligation would increase to an unserviceable level. The town would be in perpetual debt, which would jeopardize the freedom of all its inhabitants. Larn finally realized the extreme gravity of his error, and that put him into a foul mood.
“I don’t want to talk about this any longer,” barked Larn. “Oberlin is just ahead. Put your hood on, fugitive.”
They crossed a small stream and entered the village of Oberlin, which was similar to Tarply in several aspects. Like Tarply, it had a hundred or more houses, built of wood and covered with thatched roofs, and placed randomly on the bank of the stream. Only one long street ran completely through the town.
However, at Oberlin, the warlord’s oppressed servants inhabited all these homes, and Olar used the men as protection. At the sound of the bugle, the warlord could rely on several hundred men flocking immediately to guard the wall of his enclosure. Not long after, more would arrive from farther away, and by nightfall, his shepherds would appear. These together would add at least one hundred more to the enclosure. Next, the armed servants of the house, the warlord's personal attendants, the men who formed his entourage, numbered in the dozens. Altogether, hundreds of well-armed men, battle ready, would arrange themselves beneath his banner. In stark contrast, the people of Tarply would willingly fight for their leader and village by their own free choice, not because the whim of a tyrant had mandated their loyalty.
Oberlin’s carpenters and mason workers had made two of the buildings in the town from brick, and not far apart. One was the tax house, administered by Trahan Brill, where all merchants and farmers paid their tribute to the warlord. The other was the council house, where Olar sat to administer justice and to send criminals or political enemies to the gallows. Recently, Olar had become chronically ill, so Trahan had assumed the duties of judge during the warlord’s seemingly endless convalescence. The buildings that surrounded the tax and council houses always seemed new, because fire had easily destroyed the wooden structures that preceded them. This had happened twice recently. Fire had laid half the town to ashes. They had been able to rebuild the wooden structures in only a few weeks, because the raw materials of construction, trees and lumber, were exceedingly abundant and very easy to access.
Near the front doors of the two inns, which were across the street from each other, groups of people gathered, quietly gossiping among themselves about the burden of heavy taxation, and whispering treasonous suggestions of revolt against the corrupt power structure. Near the end of the village was the town’s store of excess grain. The storehouse was replete with inventory. The threat of raiding nomads on the trade routes had also affected Oberlin. For fear of travel on the roads, fewer people than usual had come to Oberlin to purchase grain harvested from their irrigated fields. Larn had expected this and hoped to get it at a reduced price.
At the granary, the men from Tarply posted their horses under the nearby trees. A group of cats, which fed on the rodents that plagued the storehouse, rubbed against the wagon wheels and sniffed at the horses’ hooves. They were domestic, in a variety of colors, not like the feral black cats of the forest.
Larn waved at his men to signal that they should rest while he negotiated the price. The tired drivers stretched and decided to lead the horses to the stream. The animals needed to graze and drink more than the men needed t
o rest. On the return trip to Tarply, the greatly increased load would burden the horses and slow down the animals. If they wanted to make it back to the stone bridge by evening, they should really rest the horses while they were near fresh water. After all, the men would only load the grain. The horses would do the more difficult part by pulling the heavy cargo on a rutted dirt trail for two days.
Larn was the first to enter the storehouse office. Aton had donned his large hood and followed his friend, entering the room like a silent shadow. The sales office was dim. Inside, no candles were allowed for fear of an explosion from the pervasive grain dust. Aton embraced the darkness, welcoming the anonymity it offered to a man not wanting to be recognized. Even though there was a ubiquitous presence of cats, he saw scattered rodent paw prints in the filth covering the floor along the walls. A thin layer of dust particles had covered everything. Larn thought that a lack of human footprints in the dust would be a favorable sign for negotiating a price. Apparently, business had been slow. If there was a surplus of grain, he hoped the market price would be lower than normal, which would also keep the negotiation short and simple.
A man wearing a leather apron over a dirty shirt, with the long sleeves rolled up, was sitting on a chair behind a lengthy wooden counter. The man appeared to be leaning forward and fiddling with something on the floor, near his right foot. The countertop had a variety of grains displayed on it, the kinds available for sale, representative samples of their quality. A balance was near the samples of grain, to compare coinage to standard weights.
When Larn approached the counter, Aton went to another corner of the room and lurked in the shadows. Larn could see that the granary attendant was wiping rat entrails from the bottom of his boot. He had stomped on the rodent just before Larn and Aton had entered the filthy room.
Without looking up from the mess on the floor, the man asked, “What can I help you with?” He was trying to push a thin stick under the bloody carcass to lift it from the floor and carry it outside. The dead rat was not cooperating.
“We want to buy grain.”
He stopped poking at the rat and looked up. “We? Where are the others?” Just as he asked the question, he stood and saw Aton wearing a hooded cloak, in a shadow by the corner of the two farthest adjoining walls.
“Sorry, friend. I didn’t see you standing over there.”
Aton remained silent, but he nodded.
“Your friend doesn’t say much.”
“No, he’s all business. The others are outside. We have twelve wagons.”
“My name is Chafney. I’m the owner.”
“I’m Larn of Tarply.”
“Good to meet you, Larn. Let’s take a look at your wagons and see how much grain they can hold.” He emerged from behind the counter, kicking the dead rat forward with each step. As he opened the door, a column of light entered the room, illuminating Aton’s shadowy outline. Aton sidestepped away from the light, causing the clerk to frown with suspicion. Chafney kicked the rat’s body through the open doorway, and the hungry cats pounced on it. The man propped the door open with a large stone and went back to his chair behind the counter. Fresh air slowly trickled through the entry and tried to overcome the stagnant odor of grain dust, but lost.
“Twelve wagon loads is a lot of grain. Is that how much you need?” he asked.
“First, we should discuss price,” replied Larn, and he confidently leaned his elbows on the counter. He was expecting to get at least a fair price, but hoped for better, because of the great quantity of grain and lack of customers able to buy it.
Larn and his companions had brought enough silver with them to fill their wagons with the grain that he planned to purchase at a big discount, or so he had thought. Chafney quoted Larn a price that was more than twice what he expected. At that price, they would not have enough for Tarply and the hungry people of the hill tribes who had settled near the village. This price was not acceptable. They needed to fill all of the wagons with grain. Chafney explained that it was not his fault. He was not greedy, but he had to charge this much because of all of the new taxes and fees ordered by the tax collector, Trahan Brill. Trahan had fixed the price; therefore, Chafney could not negotiate what he had to charge for the grain. The owner of the granary could do nothing about it, because a greedy villain had set the market price.
This deeply troubled Aton, because he had a responsibility to the tribes who had migrated. Those settlers from the hills were not fully established in their new territory. Their numbers were increasing, and they needed food. Aton had stayed in the shadows, but could not resist stepping forward into the light when he saw the depth of the owner’s frustration. “We’ll take it. Enough to fill twelve wagons.”
“But Aton, this is robbery,” said Larn, angrily.
Holding a bag of coins in each hand, Aton approached the counter. “The real criminal is Trahan.” He dropped the bags, each landed with a dull thud on the countertop. The balance rattled.
“Who are you?” asked Chafney, as he narrowed his eyes.
“Why do you care?”
“Because what you say can get you killed. The gallows are always close to a man with treasonous thoughts.”
Aton removed his hood and stood defiantly in front of the merchant. Under his cloak, he already had a grip on his knife, just in case.
“Now do you know who I am? I already have a price on my head.”
“No. And I really don’t want to. I just want your money.”
“I’ll tell you anyway. My name is Aton Matin.”
Chafney’s eyes grew wide when he realized who was standing at his counter. “You’re Davin Matin’s son. They said that you murdered Malina Regalyon.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t believe anything said by the warlord’s henchmen, but there’s a reward for you. Guilty or innocent, it doesn’t matter.”
“Lanzo Brill did it,” growled Aton. “People need to know that.”
“Shut the door!” Chafney wildly commanded Larn. “Very well, very well. I said that I believe you, but you can’t say these things around here. If they suspect me of plotting against the warlord, they will hang me just as fast as they will you.”
“Someone needs to tell Olar what Trahan has been doing. His taxes will ruin people. Even Olar was never this bad.”
“You should know something,” whispered Chafney, from behind the safety of a closed door. “Olar is sick, but if you ask me, I think it’s poison that has him on his death bed. Everyone says that as soon as he dies, Trahan or his son will take control of Olar’s domain.”
Trahan had been poisoning Olar in low doses to kill him slowly. Not to attract suspicions, the dosage was small, but over the long term, it would be fatal. This way the effects would appear as a chronic ailment, not like a poison. Trahan had done this many times: a calculated slow murder with a fatal toxin.
Olar had no sons. In his weakened condition, he had no other option than to bequeath his reign to the man that would marry his daughter. Rather than risk his family losing all control after his death, he blessed the impending matrimonial union from his deathbed, because he thought it was everything that he could do under the circumstances.
“Trahan is too old to be a ruler,” said Aton.
“But Lanzo isn’t,” said Chafney. “He has positioned himself to be the heir to the title.”
“How?”
“Olar has no sons. After Lanzo marries Esina, he will be next in line when Olar dies. That’s why everyone is whispering that it’s poison killing the warlord.”
When Aton heard that Esina was going to marry Lanzo, a wave of grief overcame him, and he dropped the knife, almost fainting. It rattled on the floor under a cloud of grain dust. The counter hid from Chafney’s view what had dropped. Aton concealed the weapon as he picked it up from the floor.
“Marriage,” said Aton, still in shock at the thought of his love, Esina, engaged to someone like Lanzo.
“Yes, but not by
her choice. An arranged marriage, with the wedding ceremony at the spring festival. Mark my words, Olar won’t live much past the spring festival.”
Aton’s legs began to shake. He went through the threshold to escape the gloominess that had filled the dark room. Next to the open doorway, he leaned against the wall and took in deep breaths of fresh air to try to calm his nerves. He felt as if the smooth walls of a cauldron trapped him deep inside the deadly vessel while he futilely struggled to escape, as it slowly filled with liquid horror to a depth that would drown him in misery. When he regained his wits, he did his best to help load the grain onto the wagons and tried not to think about Esina’s engagement to Lanzo, but he could not do the impossible.
They filled the wagons with grain, and twelve carts pulled by weary horses began to leave Oberlin. Larn assumed the lead position again, and Aton fidgeted on the same uncomfortable seat. At the edge of town, just before they were going to turn onto the road home, a chauffeured carriage accompanied by armed soldiers on horseback cut across their path as it headed down the main road into the village. Aton froze as still as a statue. Esina was in the carriage’s backseat. Next to her was Lanzo. Three magnificently decorated horses trotted behind the entourage of soldiers. On the center horse, Aton could plainly see Trahan Brill. Larn had already seen Trahan, and had hid his face to conceal his presence from the tax collector. Aton thought that most likely Trahan was going to bleed the village for more tax money and maybe some fines, too. Esina had slipped away, but at least Aton had seen her. She was still as beautiful as he remembered her to be and just as lovely as she was in his dreams, which he had each lonely night away from her. She was so close that it was as if she just slipped through his fingers. As the carriage receded from his view, the distance between the star-crossed lovers increased again, and there was nothing that he could do about it. He felt as weak and helpless as a blind, newborn kitten. He sulked all the way back to Tarply.
