by Veras Alnar
The Heir of Garstwrot
by Veras Alnar
I
There was a wide but swampy river that ran through a bend in the land so deep it had nearly closed it off to the rest like an island. The fens surrounding it were so deep and thick with reeds it was barely discernible from the muddy edges in some places. There were several large barges being pushed through the muck by several groups of very strong men. The pilot navigating the marshy bank with a large stick was a haggard looking man who wore the King's banner emblazoned across his filthy over shirt. The boar pranced proudly in red even though the white of the top had long been tarnished to a wretched gray.
“Over here,” a bargeman shouted from the marsh, “shore up against the rocks!”
There were several carts and wagons waiting for them, along with a spindly looking man who had a shock of wild, white blonde hair that nearly reached his back. In one hand he held a rusted scythe that looked so poorly kept it had to have been fished out of that same fen as a matter of jest.
“Grave master?” the King's man shouted.
“That it is,” the grave master replied, “Fulk of Garstwrot, here to collect the harvest of his highness!”
A smattering of laughter went up from the workmen dregs gathered at the edges to earn a few bits of gold a piece for hard labour. Some were smoking wooden pipes while others slouched along the wooden ferry platforms like lumps of clay in their shoddy, well worn work clothes.
The King's man shouted, “About face men, hit the ledges!”
The barges drew up on the bank and were pulled by the large workmen with some effort until they landed far enough inward to be checked. The rough made sacks that had covered their contents were thrown open and it was revealed to the grave master his goods.
“All in order?” Fulk asked.
“A mass grave will do,” the King's man said, “but for these three-”
The man gestured to two young boys and a woman who were still dressed in noble finery. The face of the woman was still etched in an expression of misery while the two boys seemed peacefully oblivious, hands clutched together. The woman's face had other tells of what might have happened to her and her kin as her cheeks had been chewed through in bites far too big for rats.
“Bury them separate with a big stone marker,” the King's man said, “in what you have of consecrated ground for the nobility.”
“That's up the hill,” Fulk said, “it's extra.”
“How is it extra,” the King's man demanded.
“Three bodies up a hill is sweaty work,” Fulk insisted, “and I have to walk well beyond the standing stones to even get at the consecrated earth for nobility.”
“Two are children,” he tried to barter.
“And one is a woman of loveliness who has been starved until she ate out her own cheeks,” Fulk said, “and all three have to be carried halfway with a cart and the rest wrapped up around my back. It's extra work which means it's extra gold plucked from the pocket of his highness.”
The King's man didn't like it but he relented, handing Fulk a sizable bag of money. The bodies on the cart aside from the three were stripped nude and shone like multicolored stones under the sun.
“Are all these knights Edgen's lot,” Fulk asked.
“No,” the King's man replied, “and it would do you best to not ask any more questions and keep the gold in your pocket as a reminder. And your men-”
The gathering of ne'er do wells shuffled, their rough bearing and crude manners told the King's man all he needed to know; there would be no questions as long as the payment reached sufficient heights.
“It's well under our hats,” Fulk said, “long live the King.”
The grave master grinned a skeleton's grin, his craggy teeth not unlike the standing stones that watched over Garstwrot's noble lines buried in its grim, swampy earth.
“Long live King Hune,” the King's man said, “death to the false monarch Edgen and all his schemers, may the devil take him.”
“Devil take him!” a few staggered shouts went up along with a smattering of laughter.
It was a devil that they all believed ruled over the grim and swampy lands of Garstwrot and the royal bargemen couldn't wait to leave its rank shores that smelled vaguely of sulfur, and the town that was filled with even less pleasant men.
On top of the near island known as Garstwrot was a great craggy hill made of dark stone covered in brilliant green moss for most of the year that was a beautiful sight to behold when the sun shone in the summer. As it was a dreary spring day, the land was a lot browner and muddier covered in great puddles of water and swampy little holes that tripped unwary travelers who wandered away from the road. At the very base of the hill under the cliffs was a series of shale caverns carved out by the trickle of water for thousands of years flanked by more bogs and fens that fettered the river. Bog iron was scattered along its edges, giving the water an ugly, unnaturally orange hue.
Collecting from its edge was the blacksmith Reyna with his bucket, carefully he gathered the rocks and minded the gaping maw of the caves that opened up like wicked mouths along the banks. Everyone knew the crag deep inside spewed all manner of filthy gases and belched violent fire at its core from deep underneath the earth, a frightening sight when one wasn't used to it and like every town, Garstwrot had its superstitions about its landmarks and their origins. But none were as pervasive and long lived as the devils who lived in the crag, supposedly ready at any moment to leave their boiling fire spewing homes to take Garstwrot back as their own.
Even as Reyna walked in the places he had done a hundred times before without any incident what so ever, he still peaked over his shoulder now and again. After a childhood spent being told stories of devils in the fields who walked with fiery hooves and travelers who vanished or fell victim to twists in the road or diabolical influence, he wasn't about to let his guard down. Sometimes the crag so violently exploded from its earthen heart it rained ash on all the fens and today Reyna felt, that after much experience with its temperament, it was close to doing so again and who knew what sort of mischief would come with it. It was never a good sign when the land was restless and the land in Gartswort seemed to have a mind of its own.
“Bless and keep me Christef,” Reyna said, after filling his bucket, “may the devils find their rest in the infernal hells.”
Weaving through the craggy hills and flooded fens, Reyna carried his laden buckets through the edges of Garstwrot's titled land. Beyond the craggy stones and twisted trees at the edge of the water were some several farms scattered at the edges of a terraced lot. Farming was difficult in its wet soil but not impossible and worked well enough that most households kept pigs or cows along with their vegetable gardens.
“Durgia!” Reyna shouted, “Get over here, help your father!”
His daughter was a strong, young woman with a pretty face who herded cattle, plowed the fields and took his overladen buckets with ease in her comely, big arms. She was the admiration of the men of the town and a constant worry to Reyna over her romantic shenanigans.
“What happened to all the men?” Durgia asked, “I thought they were supposed to help.”
“Grave master has them,” Reyna said, “gathered them up early this morning eager for the King's gold.”
“What a poor lot they are,” Durgia said, “another war, then, do you think?”
“It's only a matter of time before it reaches Garstwrot,” Reyna said, “and Lady Anna has not deigned to be at the last town meetings.”
“Her man was,” Durgia said, “he was so very handsome. All that long blonde hair and those gorgeous eyes.”
“Don't you get any ideas,” Reyna said darkly, “you've caused enough trouble with your ga
llivanting.”
“I wouldn't,” Durgia said, “I've learned my lesson. I'll keep my eye on the good one you chose for me in Fairfax.”
“If he deigns to keep you,” Reyna said, “after all the nonsense you've pulled.”
“He'll keep me,” Durgia said, “I'm sure of it and I'll have a nice, big wedding come fall harvest and all the ladies of the town will pale with jealousy it'll be so splendid. And when I get to Fairfax, I'll celebrate by falling asleep drunk in their great big church away from Garstwrot's depressing hollow.”
Reyna didn't like it, the way she spoke with such flippancy. She was far too smart for him to keep up with and the men in town she kept at reach were far too stupid. Perhaps she was to the devil for her sins but Reyna had long ago decided that that was between her and God. He only wanted her to be happy but he sorely wished she would obey. But all his thoughts about his daughter were stolen from him when he looked over his shoulder at the stone keep on the hill. Against the lowering of the day, the windows of the keep were ordinarily black and empty but on this afternoon, a single glowing red light peeked through at the very top of the tower, like a beacon. Reyna dropped his bucket with a thump.
“Ow!” Durgia shouted, “That hit my toe!”
“I must speak with Martin,” Reyna said, “carry the rest home yourself.”
“Dad!” Durgia said, “I have somewhere to be in two hours!”
“Doesn't matter!” Reyna said, “Now do it, before the sun goes down.”
Against the shimmering end of the day Reyna's form staggered across the fields and made his way towards the inn.
Looming over all of Garstwrot was the crumbling and ancient keep perched on the dark stone crags and it looked so much like them, it was almost seen as another rock on the hill to visitors. The building of the keep had happened so long ago, no one living knew exactly when it had been done but everyone knew of its gloomy builder, the great witch Garstwren, a figure so old that he had long passed well beyond history into legend.
The keep's shadow draped across the town and loomed particularly sinister from the window of the Inn on the lower hill. From the barge work below it and the grave digging and all the mean labours of the town, men would come to house themselves or drink under its rough thatched roof. Dotting along the street were boarding houses, horse pens and a craggy wooden tower often occupied by only a single, dozing man with a bow and arrow. There was little in Garstwrot worth stealing, only land, and its denizens had been so used to the keep changing hands they hardly feared it.
Winding across the stone cobbles from the barge came the grave master Fulk fresh from his duties up on the craggy hill. He was considered by most to be the worst man in town, or the best if you had need of him. Grave digging wasn't all he did and it certainly wasn't how he made his best gold. But even he had dreams greater than Garstwrot's gloomy river barges filled with the bits and pieces of the dead, though that morning he had plucked two golden crucifixes from the hands of two sleeping boys and stolen a beautiful frock from the body of a dead, wasted woman. They would all sell in Fairfax for twice what he had been paid to do the work. Usually he'd split it with his men and they in turn would keep their silence about his thieving but for now, he'd spend a few from his pocket for his own good.
“A pint,” Fulk said.
“Here you are,” Tilly the innkeeper said, setting it down, “don't go making trouble, mind.”
She was a strong woman, big in the chest and could have easily given Fulk a crack on the head so strong it would knock a man twice his size out like a lump. It was something she had done before when the occasion had called for it.
“I can't help where my shovel may fall,” Fulk said, “any more than the ghastly King can help the landing of his scythe.”
There were a few other stragglers in the inn, dingy looking men fresh off from farm work. A few who clearly had been back from an illegal hunt, bows wrapped next to their feet as they gambled a few wooden coins on rough made seats. Glancing to his side, a young man with pitch black hair was sat on a rickety chair trying and failing to spin a sheathed sword between his legs and catch it with his knees before it fell with a raucous clang.
“Will you stop that?” the man with a very severe, almost monkish hair cut snapped at him.
The young man sullenly retrieved his sword and sat with his jaw clenched, staring at the fire. He had no beer in front of him and no food, his face was sharp and sported a nose too big for it and his shoulders were very thin. So skinny in fact, they stuck up like stony little crags against the boniness of his chest.
“Go easy on him, Martin,” Tilly said, “he's not done anything wrong,”
“Only cause a nuisance wherever he goes,” Martin said.
Fulk drank his beer and glanced back at the black haired young man who was looking more miserable by the moment, he smirked and shook his head. The boy never learned.
Getting up with a loud clang, as his sword had fallen over, the young man with black hair made his way towards the door.
“Where do you think you're going, Amis?” Martin snapped.
“Out!” the young man snapped.
“Be back by sundown,” Martin said, “or else Lenna wont' keep supper warm.”
The men at their tables began to laugh, as the young man's cheeks turned a humiliated red. He left in a hurry after that and Fulk smirked as he passed him by. Waiting only a few minutes, Fulk finished his drink to the last drop and got up to leave. His sleeve was grabbed as he got up and when he looked to see who the offending party was, it had been Martin. The man's severe haircut and sharp looking eyes reminded Fulk of the foreigners who traveled from southern Adelaide, but they had been dressed in fine silks and this man looked like he'd never seen a coin made of gold that hadn't come from a dung heap. Martin was dressed as his profession allowed and stank something terrible, he had been busy harvesting his crop from the local cesspits only a few hours before.
“Don't you follow him,” Martin said.
“Think your son is old enough to choose his own friends,” Fulk said.
“You're not his friend,” Martin said, “I'd have a mind to pay to have your eye shot through with an arrow when you sneak off to poach with your vile crew.”
“Go on then,” Fulk said, “but I somehow don't think the King's guard will take much to your lowly profession shutting down his most needed professional.”
With some annoyance, Martin let go of his sleeve. Fulk snubbed his nose at him and left with a jovial step.
“He's a regular Robin Hood that one,” said Tilly “the spitting image of his father. When they come off the barge like that you know they're up to no good.”
“I never knew his father back in the old days. Fulk's a miserable fiend,” Martin said, “deserving of nothing but the darkest end of Garstwrot's dungeon.”
Tilly laughed, “I wouldn't like to send him there. I heard there's a pack of bones down there along with treasure enough to ransom a King, he'd likely just carve his way out in a month with ten sacks of gold behind him. Wonder what he wants with your son, nothing good I'd think.”
“Amis is an idiot,” Martin said, “there's no easier mark in all of Elaine than him.”
“Awfully uncharitable,” Tilly said, “he's not that much a fool. I heard he killed three bandit men who were set to make easy work of our charcoal camps with only himself and his sword. I'd be proud of that, myself.”
“He's lucky he came upon them while shifting crooked goods from Fulk's own stores to hide what he'd been doing. Killing is all he's good for,” Martin said, “it's all he's ever been good at besides taking the fall for other people's bad business.”
“He could have done in the Fairfax murderer,” Tilly said, “for all you know.”
“The children were as likely to be lost in the woods by Fairfax as killed by any other hand,” Martin said, “and Amis would do himself a favor to get lost with them.”
It was clear that Tilly wasn't fond of the way Martin treated his so
n but she said no more, just thought to fill a basket with some bread for poor Amis who had been looking rather peaky of late. It wasn't as if Martin ever gave him any proper money, if he had Tilly thought it was likely Amis wouldn't have been involved in so much bad business.
The blacksmith bustled in past the lurkers and layabouts that had gathered and didn't call for a drink. He leaned over Martin and slid a large wooden coin across the table that had a rose carved onto it. Martin looked at it, his face taking on deepest dread. He glanced up at the blacksmith who nodded to him.
“It's been lit,” Reyna said.
Together they left to go outside and have a conversation without prying ears to hear.
That night something terrible happened in Garstwrot village, something most evil. Shouts went up and a light could be traced from Reyna's pig pens to the town square, quickly followed by several others.
“Murder!” they cried, “Witchcraft! The Fairfax killer's been found!”
By the time they reached the fields there was quite a crowd to be chasing one thin, young man who staggered in threadbare clothes splashing through the muddy puddles. His brow was coated in sweat and his face flushed and the steps he had been taking slowed until he only weaved with a limping stagger. He managed to crawl pitifully into Reyna's cow barn and collapse into the hay.
But a woman had been following him, trying to keep up with the men while shouting.
“No!” Durgia screamed, “he's not to blame!”
Durgia's best friend, the milkmaid Ellie, rushed into the barn to check on Amis who had laid on the floor in a heap. She tried to straighten him out but found his eyes rolled back nearly to their whites. His brow was burning hot and he wasn't talking anything that made sense.
“Durgia!” Ellie said, “I can't tell what's wrong with him. We need to get a priest.”
With a pale and stricken face, she tried to face the crowd that had gathered outside the barn.
“He's already sick,” Durgia implored, “he's dying! Leave him be! He didn't kill those children!”
