Ascendant

by Craig Alanson

  ASCENDANT

  By Craig Alanson

  Text Copyright © 2016 Craig Alanson

  All Rights Reserved

  Table Of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Oh, this can be nothing but trouble," Bodric declared with a grimace. "Koren, best you stay in the barn."

  Bodric had heard it first, while he was standing on the floor of the barn, and his son Koren was above in the hayloft, wrestling a bale of hay down for the cows to eat. It was a familiar though infrequent sound; the slow clopping of horse hooves, and the creaking, banging noise of wagons, slowly making their way up the narrow, rutted dirt road that led to the Bladewell's door. And only to the Bladewell's door, for their farm was at the end of the road, beyond which lay only the uninhabited forest that was the Duke's hunting reserve. One wagon, unexpected, was unusual enough at their isolated farmstead. More than one wagon? Such a thing had not happened in all the years Bodric had lived there. He told Koren to hold the hay bale a moment, and stuck his head outside the barn to see who was approaching.

  Since there was no good reason for a caravan of wagons to come all the way up the hill from the village, on the lonely, axle-breaking, wheel-splintering dead-end road to nowhere, it must be for a bad reason. A reason he could guess.

  "Pa? What's trouble? What is it?" Koren did not want to hear of any trouble on this of all days, his thirteenth birthday. The one day of the year when he was allowed to sleep late, so late that the sun had peaked over the low hills to the east and sent the golden rays of morning into his bedroom window, before he had swung his feet onto the floor. So late that the chickens, sheep and cows in the barnyard, even the deer lingering at the edge of the wheat field, and the crows strutting around the cornfield, wondered why Koren was not yet out of bed. So late, that Koren had been sore from laying in bed that long, so late that by the time he had finally rolled out of bed when his mother called, he was more tired than if he'd gotten up in the pre-dawn darkness like he did every other day of the year. This day there would not be the usual oatmeal or eggs for breakfast, his mother was making batter for hotcakes, and soon he would be sitting down to enjoy a giant stack of light, fluffy hotcakes, layered with fresh butter, and swimming in a lake of maple syrup the family had made from their trees that very spring-

  "Koren?" His father interrupted Koren's hungry day dream. "You listening to me? Stay here. Right here." Bodric stuck his head out the barn door, and spat on the ground in disgust. It was the county sheriff on a horse, leading several other horses, and at least a half dozen wagons that Bodric could see, strung out along the road, all headed toward the Bodric's front door. This could not be good. For his neighbors to leave their own farms early in the morning, and ride all the way up the rough road from the village center, must be something serious. Not every farmer in the poor village of Crebbs Ford could afford to own a horse, so many had crowded into their neighbor's wagons for the uncomfortable trip, and they all seemed to be staring and pointing at Bodric, as he stood outside the barn. He didn't wave to his neighbors. Arriving unannounced, in large numbers, and led by the sheriff, was not neighborly behavior.

  "Pa!" Koren called from the hayloft, having crawled on hands and knees to lean out the loft door. "It's the sheriff! Are they calling up the militia?" He asked excitedly. There were rumors that the royal army had suffered yet another defeat, and if the orcs were bold enough, raiding parties could sweep down from their mountain lairs to the north. At thirteen, Koren was almost old enough to join the annual militia training that was held in the village square every winter, and he was looking forward to practicing with the militia, even if it was only with wooden swords and pikes. Sometimes, the militia practiced archery, since only a handful of farmers had ever held a real sword, but everyone hunted. And Koren never missed with an arrow, he couldn't wait to show the village boys, and perhaps some girls, his skill with a bow.

  "I see it's the sheriff, and if they were calling up the militia, they would have sounded the big horn at the Golden Trout. You finish feeding the animals, then clean out the stalls, and, and you fix that fencepost. Don't come to the house until I call you."

  "But, Pa," Koren protested, having heard the wagons, and burning to know what was going on outside the barn, "what-"

  "Never you mind what's going on, boy, get your chores done." Bodric said gruffly, troubled by what he thought the sheriff's visit meant.

  And then he recognized the miller, perched on the seat of his wagon with his two boys, and he knew exactly what it meant, and his heart fell in his chest.

  And Koren saw the miller at the same time. "Pa," his voice sounded strangled, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

  "You didn't do anything, son, and you don't listen to any foolish talk, either. Mind your chores." He said in a tone that invited no reply.

  Bodric strode across the field, fists clenched at his sides, until he was no more than a few feet from the sheriff, who had gotten off his horse and was standing with his own hands up in a peaceful gesture. Peaceful or not, the sheriff had a sword strapped to his waist, and a dagger tucked into his belt.

  "You had to do this on my boy's birthday?" Bodric snapped angrily to the sheriff.

  "Bodric, let's you and me talk inside-"

  Ignoring the sheriff, Bodric strode toward the miller's wagon, shaking his fist. "I'm not paying a single coin to fix your mill, you thief! If you'd put any money toward keeping your equipment in proper order, it wouldn't have-"

  The miller shouted louder, drowning out the farmer, his face beet red, standing up in the wagon. "There was nothing wrong with my mill! Your son is a-"

  "Enough!" The sheriff stepped in front of Bodric, blocking the way, rocking back awkwardly on his heels to keep the bigger man from moving forward. "Bodric, we need to talk about this in-side. And you," the sheriff pointed sternly at the miller, "sit down and keep you mouth shut. Uh!" He rested one hand on the grip of sword for emphasis. "Not one word from you."

  -"jinx!" The miller finished, but he sat down sulkily, and said no more.

  Bodric opened his mouth to speak, when the sheriff leaned close and said in a low voice. "Do you really want to do this out here, good sir?" The sheriff glanced back at the villagers, who were all standing up in their wagons, or sitting tall in the saddle, anxious to see what the sheriff would do. "I'm here to protect you from these idiots."

  Bodric closed his mouth, grinding his teeth while he considered whether to let pride, or good sense, win out. The crowd suddenly began muttering under their breath, some fearfully making hex signs with their fingers, toward the barn. Bodric turned his head to see Koren standing outside the barn door, hands clasped in front of him, his lower lip quivering as if he were about to burst into tears. With a gesture, Bodric shooed his son back into the barn and, his shoulders slumped, stepped back. "Sheriff, come inside my house, we can talk there."

  In the Bladewell's cozy kitchen, which was more than warm because the stove was fired on a warm spring morning, the sheriff of Crickdon county was wishing he hadn't worn his official uniform, which included a leather jacket. A leather jacket which trapped heat and made sweat trickle down his back, sticking his shirt to his back. He also wished the villagers hadn't insisted on riding to the Bladewell's farm quite so early in the morning, for he had skipped breakfast and was hungry, and seeing a bowl of hotcake batter, with crocks of syrup, fresh butter and
jam, was making his stomach growl.

  He also felt rather ridiculous, sitting in the kitchen of the Bladewells, a family he knew fairly well, while wearing his official uniform, including a sword. The sheriff regretted bringing the sword inside this peaceful house, but as he had brought the sword with him, he couldn't simply leave it leaning outside the front door. He knew the Bladewells fairly well, having dealt with them occasionally on business for the Baron, and always on good terms. Knew them, and respected them, for Bodric and Amalie Bladewell had turned the stony, weed-choked soil of the poor-yielding farm they had bought into the finest piece of farmland in the county. Their fields grew more grain, their cows gave more milk, their pigs grew faster, their chickens laid more and larger eggs. Compared to other farmers in Crebb's Ford, the Bladewells were prosperous, and the sheriff knew that caused resentment in some people. Despite his admiration for the hard-working family, the sheriff ignored his growling stomach and his personal feelings on the subject, and did the job his distant cousin the Baron paid him for.

  "My apologies, Mistress Bladewell," the sheriff said as he unstrapped his sword and set it down on the table beside the door, "for bringing a weapon into your home."

  Amalie stood stiffly in her kitchen, torn between the obligations of a good host to a guest, and the obvious fact that the sheriff was not in her kitchen as a guest. She had been about to crack eggs to make Koren's birthday cake when, glancing out the window, she had seen the sheriff leading a line of people up the drive to her door. The eggs sat, untouched, on the table by the stove, and her apron was draped over a chair. Amalie did not want to appear before the sheriff, on his official business, while wearing an old apron with flour and hotcake batter on it. Every year, the Bladewells gave a plump smoked ham to the sheriff, and he accepted the gift gratefully. "We know you, Tom Mallow, you've sat at our table and enjoyed your fill of my cooking. There is no need for apologies, unless you've come here to do us harm." She squeezed her husband's hand, and he nodded to her.

  “I came here to-“

  “We know why you’re here, sheriff.” Bodric interrupted. “And I told you, we’re not paying a single coin to fix that mill.”

  “I didn’t-“

  Bodric continued as if the sheriff hadn’t spoken. “Our boy wasn’t even inside the mill that day, did he tell you that? Wasn’t near the miller’s broken-down old gears.”

  “Bodric, I’m not here to collect money.” The sheriff managed to say while Bodric caught his breath.

  Husband and wife shared a surprised look. Amalie felt a chill down her spine. The family could not afford to fix the water mill’s equipment, and despite whatever lies the miller had told, Koren hadn't done anything. A demand for money was at least understandable. And if not to demand money, why had the sheriff, and what looked to be half the village, come to the Bladewell’s farm? “He’s not asking for money to fix the mill?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “The Baron has advanced funds to repair the mill, and is bringing in a skilled work crew from Norville to get the job done by the end of summer, before the harvest.”

  “That sounds expensive.” Bodric observed warily.

  “The Baron knows that without the mill, people in this village can’t pay their taxes, and the Baron will still owe his taxes to the Duke, so…”

  Bodric nodded. Sheriff Tom Mallow had been friendly, having grown up in Crebbs Ford before his distant cousin the Baron appointed Tom as county sheriff, but that friendliness was based on the Bladewell’s paying their taxes in full, and on time. Other families in Crebbs Ford, and throughout Crickdon county, did not find the sheriff friendly at all. Not when he was taking away the grain they needed to survive the winter, or taking cows, pigs or chickens the family needed. Or even bringing in men of the Baron’s guard, to help the sheriff force a poor family off their land, when the family had been unable to pay their taxes. Bodric and Amalie’s had bought their farm land at auction, after the previous owners had lost their property to the Baron for failing to pay taxes. Amalie still vividly remembered the look the unfortunate family had given her, as they rode their wagon down the road, away from the land that had failed them. “If you’re not here for money, then why?” Amalie asked, pointing vaguely out the window toward the people lined up along their road.

  “To protect you, for one.” The sheriff answered unhappily.

  “Protect us?” Bodric angrily squeezed his wife’s hand without realizing what he was doing. “From our neighbors?” He asked, astonished. Like any small village or town, some people could be petty or even mean-spirited, but Bodric had never known anyone to be violent, unless they had too much of their home-made drink. And he couldn’t imagine so many of his neighbors drinking that much so early in the morning.

  “Bodric, Amalie, people are scared.” The sheriff said quietly.

  “Scared?” It was Amalie’s turn to grip her husband’s hand tightly.

  “Scared enough to call for a priest, or a wizard, to do something about Koren. The miller has people terrified, he’s been sitting in the Golden Trout every night, whipping people into a frenzy, and Mistress Pettifogger has been helping him by providing free beer.” The sheriff made a disgusted face, as much at the innkeeper’s stupid behavior, as the poor quality of the inn’s beer.

  “Afraid of my boy?” Amalie gasped

  “Superstitious idiots.” Bodric grumbled.

  “Idiots they may be, but there was talk of people coming up here with torches, and burning you out. They want you to leave.”

  “Leave?” Amalie nervously twirled around her finger the blue ribbon that tied back her dark hair. “Bodric's family has farmed land around Crebb’s Ford for three generations. And Koren is not dangerous! He's just a boy, barely thirteen. I’ll certainly not have the likes of Pricella Pettifogger," Amalie waggled her finger toward the kitchen window, "chase me away from my home.”

  Pricella, wife of the town’s innkeeper, was a thin, unpleasant woman, who always had a disapproving look on her face, like she smelled something bad, and it must be you. The only time people ever saw Pricella smile was when she was trying to curry favor with the Baron or his family. Some people said that avoiding Pricella is why the Baron never visited Crebb’s Ford anymore. Not that the Baron ever spent much time in such a small, poor village, the Baron being busy doing important Baron things, like ruling all of Crickdon county. As long as the people of Crebb’s Ford paid their taxes when the Baron’s sheriff came to collect at harvest time, the Baron could not have cared less what his subjects did in the tiny, poor village of Crebb’s Ford. The only time the Baron passed through Crebb’s Ford these days was in his four-horse carriage, on his way to visit the Duke. And the Baron would likely have avoided Crebb’s Ford entirely, if not for the fact that the bridge in the village was the only way across the river for twenty five miles in either direction. Older folk in the village joked that they could remember when the Baron’s carriage was pulled by only two horses, before the Baron grew so fat! Such things were not, of course, ever said outside of one’s own home, the Baron being very vain about his appearance.

  It was the Baron’s total lack of interest in the goings-on of the inhabitants of Crebb’s Ford that left Tom Pettifogger, owner of the Golden Trout Inn and the wealthiest man among the poor people of Crebb’s Ford, the leader of the village. And since Tom had no interest in acting as mayor, and more than anything wanted to keep his wife busy so she would not have time to nag him to death, Pricella was left in charge of the day-to-day goings-on around Crebbs Ford.

  The source of the Pettifogger’s dispute with the Bladewells happened back around Koren’s eighth birthday, when his father brought him into the common room of the Golden Trout, after they had sold a cow for what Bodric felt was a more than fair price. Bodric was in a very jolly mood, so he had decided to celebrate with a cold mug of beer in the common room of the Golden Trout. Koren was sitting with his father while Bodric sipped beer, told stories, laughed, and discussed the weather with other farmers, when
Koren decided he wanted to try this 'beer' that all the men were so eager to drink. His father had gotten up from the table, to play a game of darts, and left his half-full mug of beer behind. No one was watching Koren, in the dark corner of the common room. One sip, that’s all, just one little sip, he told himself. But the stoneware mug was heavy, and at first he didn’t tilt it enough to make the beer close enough to sip. Then he tipped it too far, and got a mouthful.

  Just at the moment Koren’s eyes flew open wide in surprise and he choked on the bitter brew, the giant wooden vat in the back room of the Golden Trout burst open, and two hundred gallons of what Tom Pettifogger claimed was the best beer in Crickdon county came crashing through the door into the common room, washing away tables, chairs and customers alike. Now, whether Tom Pettifogger’s beer was the best brew in the county as he claimed, or, as some of his customers grumbled, was stale swill not fit for horses to drink, was in dispute. Not in dispute was Tom and Pricella’s shock and anger, and also not in dispute, as far as the Pettifoggers were concerned, was who was to blame: Koren.

  The Great Beer Flood wasn’t the first time that Koren had been present during an unfortunate incident in Crebb’s Ford. In fact, Koren had a reputation as-

  A jinx.

  There is no nice way to say it. Koren was considered to be a jinx. A bad-luck charm. Strange things simply seemed to happen when Koren was around. Bad things, unfortunate things. Not that anyone ever saw Koren actually do anything to make bad things happen, they simply happened. And always when young Koren was involved.

  The first couple times bad things happened around Koren, people laughed and said Bodric needed to be careful about that boy. But when the blacksmith’s forge roared into a fire so hot it caused a white-hot pillar of flame to shoot up through the roof of the shed, at the exact moment young Koren yelped from burning his hand on a hot poker, people began not so much to talk, as to grumble. Began to mutter under their breath, to give Koren odd, unfriendly glances, and to wonder if, in fact, Koren really was indeed a jinx. Even sensible adults began to wonder if Koren was somehow cursed with bad luck.