Chapter 38

  Day Zero – Morning

  A thick fog hovered over the entire valley, withholding Father Sun’s embrace. Spring would soon arrive, but Gothar and Telf could still see their own breath. Father and son were inspecting and preparing the tools for the day in the pigpen that stood next to their home. None of the handles were rotted or had gnaw marks. The swine were doing what they did best: Nothing. They were huddled together on hay, dirt and dung. Soon enough, the boy would have to gather this rich manure. It was the Constellation of Ram that dictated a peasant’s life right now, before the soil would soon freeze again.

  “Pa~?” yawned the boy. “This needs a new one.” Telf held up a dungfork and bent its handle. A nasty creak sounded aloud.

  “The spares are under your gramp’s bed,” replied Gothar. He was at the end of his forties, thin and tired. His cheeks and eyes were more sunken than usual. The last winters had eroded the youthful charm he had retained for so long. A head full with hair was the only thing that was left, and the bite scars on his hands itched more with each day. “Son, you look tired,” said Gothar with a teasing smirk. “Did you meet with Senna after dark again?”

  Telf sighed, and took off his coif to wipe the crust out of his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

  “You can’t fool me,” said Gothar while he watched the swine. One of the sows was pregnant, which made the older man say a silent prayer towards the sky. “You should get her a Love Tree for Fire Festival. I can help you find the best one.” He pulled off his well-made leather cap that was adorned with a button with a May Tree and the numeral III on it. “Let’s pray to get many piglets this year, with just the five left.”

  “I’ll get one, but you won’t be involved.” The son walked up to his father and slapped him on the shoulder. Gothar was a rather short man, and Telf was already outgrowing him. “I don’t wanna hear you judging my tree choices the whole time,” he said. “And ma doesn’t wanna either.”

  “Your loss, the other men and I are getting the Maytree after the plough.” Gothar returned the slap on his son’s shoulder. “You know, I am the uncontested three tim–”

  “Yea, yea, you are the tree champion, I know. Everybody knows,” laughed the boy. “I also know you were the chasing-every-skirt-and-sneaking-out-champion. I am not a child anymore, pa. Folk talk to me.”

  Gothar wiggled his shoulders and pulled his gugel into place. “And what did they tell you about me?” He donned an unfatherly smirk.

  Groaning in disgust, Telf walked away from his father. “That you have no damned business telling me who and when to meet.”

  The father knocked on his son’s head. His scarred knuckles sounded a wooden ‘clop’ on the young skull, messing up the coif on top of the dark hair he shared with both his parents. “Language, son,” said Gothar half-seriously. “And you are damned right. Your ma and I told you that we understand. You are young and full of feelings. But you’ll not bring the Auror’s shame into our household.” He looked Telf in the eye and slapped him against his shoulder once more. “Remember: Hands stuff only.”

  “Pa!” shouted the boy and fixed his coif. “I am not a sinner, and neither is Senna!”

  “Yea, yea, and neither was I,” said Gothar. “You’ll wait until marriage, and we’re not approving it until you’re old enough. The village needs to recover, and we can’t afford another mouth.” With each word, the man’s smirk was dying, until he looked at the pregnant sow again – away from his son.

  “I know, pa,” replied Telf and hugged his father. “I know.”

  Their breaths went past each other’s necks on this cold winter morning, but they felt warmth from each other. While the swine were as lazy as ever, a bunch of noise came from outside their pen. Gothar gave his son three hoes before the pair headed out.

  “Go ahead, I’ll get you ma.” The father pointed through the village, following an uphill path along a creek. “When you see your gramp, tell him he’s not going with us into the fields. He can barely get up the ladder these days. He’s on toddler duty with the rest.”

  “Will do,” nodded the boy and shouldered the tools.

  The pigsty was attached three or even five generations later to the house of Gothar’s forefathers. Both half-timbered with a rocky base of brown wattle and daub, and a thatched roof. The colors were different from each other, as was the wood; but it worked well enough together.

  Nobody had the need for a lock in a hamlet like this. A wooden latch was enough to keep the pigs inside, and wild animals or the wind out. Every entrance had one step to keep the water out. When the spring and summer finally arrived, it was an ideal place to sit and watch one’s neighbors. The big room had a fireplace in the middle of it, with many chests and cupboards on the walls to keep the pests away from what’s important. A long table and two benches, made from stumps and one long log, still had cutlery, cups and bowls on it. The tablecloth, which was adorned with stitchery of Father Sun and the Moon Sisters, had many stains on it.

  An easy to access second room, divided by a basketwork wall, didn’t even make up a third of the main room. The family’s butchery and workshop were there, with just two stools, plenty of knives, hooks and a smoker. One big jar of salt was likely the most valuable possession of this household. Each room had one big window on each wall.

  The morning fog only let in dim light. Gothar grunted and groaned to make himself heard, when he climbed up the ladder in a corner of the big room. A spacious attic resided above, filled with hay, chests and one long bed for many folk. Even though everything creaked, he coughed loudly before he stepped onto the planks.

  “Morning, sugar beet,” said Gothar when he sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on the body under a blanket.

  “I’m awake,” mumbled Roda. She didn’t move, with her back towards him and her head buried into the straw mattress.

  “I know.” He leaned against her and let his hand wander upward from her hip, wrapping his arms around her. “Work’s waiting. I’ve sent Telf ahead to stop my father from picking up a hoe or worse.”

  After a long-winded sigh, the woman turned around and leaned into the embrace. Gothar looked into the beautiful green eyes of his wife, who nestled her forehead against his. “I dreamed of our babies again,” said Roda. “I’ve been running around all the villages, the keep and the mountains. Every time I thought I found them, that quack the Auror sent told me they’re somewhere else. I didn’t see them once.”

  “He couldn’t do much,” said Gothar and rubbed her shoulders. “Isen and Isar are with Ronna and Lim now. We’ll be reunited among the Stars.”

  Roda rose slowly. The blanket slipped from her naked body as she tied her hair into a bun. Shaped by strict rationing, her ribs and cheek bones were hard to miss. “We still have Telf,” she said, as she searched for her headscarf under the blanket.

  “He’s strong, and he’s healthy.” Gothar opened a chest next to the bed and handed Roda a simple red-brown dress with a woolen mantle. “Just like his mother.”

  “Don’t do our son dirty like this,” replied Roda while dressing up. “He takes way more after you. He snuck out at night to see Senna again.”

  “I know, we talked,” sighed the husband and stood up. “We need to get to work. What do you think about huddling up and taking a nap together when we’re done?”

  Roda also stood up and gave her man a brief kiss on the lips before walking away. “I love you.”

  Holding onto the tail of his wife’s dress, Gothar smiled knowingly and followed her. “I love you too, sugar beet,” he said. “I wish you would smile again.”

  Replying with a, “hrmph” so quiet that it might not have been there at all, Roda put on the pins and fibulas that kept her clothes together. Their entire family wore the same shoes from soft leather, and wraps around their shins. Everyone in Penram wore these, either knee high or around the ankles. A family one village over made them.

  Roda and Gothar climbed down the ladder and headed outside. Under the fogged-over sun, they followed the path next to the stream that was no less than two yards wide. Fifteen houses made up the hamlet that went slightly uphill. None stood out from the other, as all of them were roughly the same size and materials. Here and there, a small barn or shack for storage and firewood broke the pattern, as did the hencoops that belonged to nobody. The chickens roamed freely around the whole area.

  Penram had been muddy for days, yet everyone of working age had gathered around the water mill in the center. Entirely built from stone, with an adjacent tannery, the village’s beer casks from St. Gellen were kept in it as well. As every year, the fields awaited their first ploughage and needed to be fertilized. Such was a peasant’s duty to their liege.

  “There you are, lil’ brother,” said a stout, half-bald man, delightedly. He walked up to Gothar with his arms spread wide. “Junior and Telf are getting pa out of the way. We’re only missing Losse with kith and kin, then we can go.”

  Waiting for the brothers to finish their greeting, Roda got herself a hug as well. “How are you today, Bigge?” she whispered into his ear. “And where’s my niece? Where’s my Bina?” After giving her brother-in-law a peck on the cheek, she looked around.

  Bigge got pushed to the side so that Roda could embrace his daughter for much longer. “The nights are cold,” said the older man and pulled the hood of his gugel up as a joke. His eyes, however, wandered to the ground. “But I’m good.”

  “Aaaunty,” yammered Bina with an awkward smile and closed eyes. “It’s alright, really.”

  “Damned tatzelwyrm snatched some more chickens last night,” said Bigge, exhausted. He squinted up the mountain peaks, as if searching for it through the fog.

  “Even more?” asked Roda and Gothar in unison. The pair looked at each other, as the woman let go of her niece.

  “You sure they’re not just sitting under the houses or hiding where only the Stars can find them?” Gothar joined his brother in squinting for the tatzelwyrm.

  “I counted them on the yester and today. I’ll count them in the morrow, but I am sure they’re gone,” said another man from the group. He was around Bigge’s age and visibly bothered by Gothar counting the chickens as he saw them. “C’mon man,” he sighed. “Gothar, I can count.”

  “You sure can count, Vils.” Gothar stopped, walking up to his fellow villager. He slapped him on the shoulder with a smirk. “Remind me, what comes after ninety-one again?”

  “Fuck you, Gothar,” laughed Vils. “That was twenty years ago, by the Kraken!”

  Both men laughed together, until Vils was struck from behind. “Language!” yelled his wife. “We have enough bad luck as it is, you don’t need to invoke the Kraken.”

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  “Damned Ludwald could get his tinned arse down here and deal with the wyrm,” grumbled Roda. Her sharp eyes were focused on the closest chicken, pecking the wet grass. “Piece of shit.”

  “Roda!” The other woman put her hands on her mouth with widened eyes. “I just told the knuckleheads to not curse.” She clenched her tan garments, surprised, and stepped away from the men.

  “I’m not invoking the Kraken, but that useless arse,” said Roda, her eyes shifting away from the peaks and towards the vague shadows of a stone block below them. “Every time we tell him about it, he–”

  Half the village, led by Gothar, fell into a chant. “The tatzelwyrm has been slain by my ancestor, Sir Luphert the Brave. Ever since, it hasn’t been seen on my holdings. Do you think my dear forefather a liar, peasant?” Everyone had a good laugh, no matter how frail or haggard they were.

  “What’s up, we talking shit about Ludwald?” said a voice from behind them.

  “Losse!” The village’s men yelled when the forty year old man with the lazy eye arrived.

  “Finally, where’s your woman?” asked Roda.

  “Will be here in a breath,” replied Losse, shouldering a heavy hoe. “Let’s begin.”

  “Great; but first…” Bigge turned towards the gathering and waved his arms around to gain everyone’s attention. “As y’all know, seeds for the summer are low! Even with rationing, we used up two-twentieth,” yelled the man that was built like an underfed ox. “But the good news is: Less work for the next two days!” He laughed, but nobody else did.

  “We got the miller’s horse and our two oxen, who failed to get one of the cows pregnant.” Gothar rushed to Bigge’s side. “That means she can work for her food, like we do,” he joked with more success than his older brother. “Four ploughs total, so me, Bigge, Losse, and–” He looked around and grabbed the closest man to him. “Vils here will steer the animals and get four acres done today. In the morrow, four others will have it easy. For the rest, please make groups of eight hoes per acre. If any of you old fellas don’t feel too well, please stay back and help the kids shovel dung. Don’t get impatient with them or the wheelbarrows!”

  “Hooold.” A dramatic tenor sliced through Gothar’s speech. From behind the last barn, three men rode into Penram. The villagers made room for them to reach the watermill, but a couple were nearly toppled over.

  A well-built man in his twenties led the charge on a jet black steed with a white diamond on its forehead. A clean, new, blue arming doublet with bronze buttons made his buff chest stand out. His breeches, gloves and boots were all made from the same fine leather. Before even speaking, he fixed his red-brown hair that got messed up by the wind as he stopped between the peasants. He wore his ancestors’ coat of arms above his heart. A fibula of a heater shield, framed black with an uppointing green triangle representing the mountains. Three yellow triangles faced down. They were meant to be Luphton, Penram and Bromwich, flanking each other, and a black spear in the center.

  “What an honor to be blessed with your presence, Sir Aurick.” Roda was the first to cast off the wave of confusion among the commonfolk. “What is it that brings you here, young lord?” She bowed her head low, as everyone around her did.

  The knight had waited for this gesture. “Greetings,” he said and unmounted. The two men that arrived with him wore longswords of good quality, multi-colored gambesons and properly groomed beards. “Me and my father’s men are thirsty.” Aurick looked at the mill, and through the crowd of peasants. “How about you offer us some of that good St. Gellen’s brew?”

  “We would like nothing better than that,” replied Gothar, seeking help among his surroundings until Bigge walked away. “How else can we be of service, or is that all?” His voice trembled. The good folk of Penram knew their liege’s second son. He’s always been a hothead whose mood swung left and right with the wind. But ever since he came back from the Eagle Society, a knightly order he squired in, he had been worse. Nobody knew what it was that happened to him when they were send to help stop border raids from the Yesilians. But they made sure not to get on his nerves.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” The knight smirked. He built himself up in front of the short peasant, even though he wasn’t especially tall himself. “Gonther was it?” He patted Gothar on the shoulder.

  “Gothar, Sir Aurick.” He glimpsed at his wife and her boiling eyes. “It’s just that we were about to head into the fields. It’s the sixth of Ram, the soil’s unfrozen for now, and rain will come soon enough,” he said, trying his hardest to not sound too smart. “We need to make good harvest for your father, young lord.”

  Bigge’s stubby legs carried his stout body as swiftly as they could. All while trying to keep a brimming beer mug from spilling. Other villagers did the same for the two men that came with Sir Aurick, still mounted.

  The knight took Bigge’s offering without so much as looking at him. He hadn’t looked at any peasant except Gothar so far. “About that,” said the young lord, took a sip, and wiped the foam off his lips on his sleeve. “My dear lord father has ordered me to tell his subjects that my beloved mother, the Dame Rosenhild, is in need of spindles for spring.” He pushed the mug back into Bigge’s hand, spilling some of it over the man’s chest. “Thusly:” Aurick’s voice rose, attempting to sound more regal. “You are tasked with gathering appropriate snails and greenery to make them fat. The village that gathers the most will be rewarded by my dear lord father with–”

  “Are you f–” Roda was stopped by Gothar’s hands on her chest and shoulders, pushing her behind himself.

  “Young lord, I must insist,” interrupted the short peasant. “We may only have two days to plough the fields and fertilize them. I am sure your beloved mother, the Dame Rosenhild, will understand that we–”

  Sir Aurick’s stance shifted as quickly as his fists clenched. His rage was as feeble, his gaze shifting from Roda to Gothar. “You insolent–” yelled Aurick, when his knuckles connected with the peasant’s nose. Gothar stumbling backwards into his wife did not stop the knight’s fists though. “Little–” He hit again. “Shit!”

  The two lackeys unhorsed as quick as they could, but were blocked by the villagers. Some flocked towards what happened, some backed away, many screamed or gasped. A struggle between their desire to help Gothar and the fear of making it worse went through Penram.

  Roda’s face wrinkled with anger, her eyes focused on her husband. Trying to drag the young lord away, all her hands found was the fibula on his chest; their family crest. She ripped it away, as more peasants followed her example. Soon enough, the footmen of their liege had forced themselves through the crowd and between the knight and Gothar.

  “Sir Aurick! Young lord!” yelled the retainers.

  The young nobleman’s arms could not reach the peasant anymore, but his rage persisted. He looked down, inspecting his clenched fists, until he noticed a tear on his chest. “You harlot,” he groaned. “Did I allow you to lay hands on me?!” He raised his fists again, glanced at Roda who was still holding the palm-sized shield.

  “Pa!” yelled Telf from afar. Instinctively, Roda’s eyes sought out her approaching son. Too late did she notice that Aurick had lashed out at her too. Gothar had gotten onto his feet again, throwing himself in front of his wife.

  With Gothar’s face in the dirt, the two riders that came with Aurick pushed their young lord away. One had his arms wrapped around him, and the other’s arms were spread afar to keep everyone at bay.

  “Off of me!” shouted Aurick. “Off I said!” His father’s men did as they were told, but kept it close. The young lord looked around the peasants, into their shocked and frightened visages. “What did you think you were doing?”

  “My–” Gothar was on his knees and hands, blood dripping from his nose. “My deepest apologies, young lord…”

  “You owe me good stitchwork,” said Aurick and came closer again, watched by the retainers. He ran his hand down his doublets and rested it on the gold-hilted longsword on his hip. It was adorned with their family crest on top, and his personalized crest with the spear shaped as a lightning bolt down low. In the middle was the coat of arms of the Eagle Society, an eight-pointed blue eagle in the shape of a star on silver ground.

  “I’ll mend it if you leave it with me.” Roda knelt next to her husband, but didn’t break her gaze from Aurick. Her offer was loud and said with resentment. “Or let someone bring it down from the keep whenever you feel comfortable.”

  “There’s no need for that, wench,” replied Aurick and looked around the peasantry. “If I remember right, you have a daughter that recently came of age? I’ll take her with me to the keep so that she can mend the damage you did.” The knight smirked, while he eyed every girl and young woman.

  Nobody was whispering anymore. Losse had come to Roda’s side and held a handkerchief under Gothar’s nose. Meanwhile, Vils kept an eye on Bigge, whose veins stood out on his half-bald head and neck. The white of his knuckles was about to burst out of his fists.

  Roda held the crest of her liege tight. So tight that the needle of the fibula pierced her hand. She averted her sharp eyes, away from Sir Aurick. If she had to look at him one more time, she didn’t know what would overcome her.

  “Young Lord, we–” Her lips trembled. “We’ve reported the death of our oldest to Sir Ludwald two years ago. And our youngest got sick this winter. We–” Her voice gave in and the blood of her hand joined that of Gothar’s nose. “You were there. You stood right next to your brother when we came up that mountain. Your father denied our request to ask for an Auror from St. Gellen. Not even a star brother or sister.”

  “How dare you speak to me like–” Aurick listened carefully. His and her eyes had the same look. Even their voices could have been the same. “Fine,” he said, mustering Roda from head to toe. “You’ll do.”

  The knight wasted no time, pushed his father’s men to the side. He grabbed Roda’s wrist where she held his fibula. When he felt her resistance, he pulled out an ornamented dagger. Gothar grabbed her other hand, while Bigge came in with a haymaker that didn’t land. One of the lackeys swatted him away with his backhand before the underfed ox was able to land his fist.

  “Aurick!” yelled the other bearded retainer. Trying to hold the young lord back, his words were drowned out by the peasants’ pleads. “Your father–”

  “Hands off my wife!” Meanwhile, Gothar was heard by everyone, loud and clear. He pushed his son to the side, who tried to cling to his mother. Breathing through his nose was hard and his hands were covered in mud. Gothar knew his wife too well. She was kicking and screaming, as she did since she was a child. While her husband tried to get on his feet, Roda’s elbow connected with Aurick’s jaw.

  “You–” The knight halted his dramatic tenor, as his head snapped back. His nose was wrinkled like a bulldog, as were his teeth. “Ego fulguro!”

  A flash illuminated the early morning fog, as the dagger sunk into Gothar’s chest. An explosive bolt of lightning worked itself through his entire body, as the peasant hit the ground. His body stiffened up before one last twitch of his legs. There was no blood, only the smell of cauterized blood.

  “Stop touching me!” yelled Aurick. He pushed Roda into the mud, next to her husband and son. Time stood still in Penram, as he walked backwards.

  “Pa!” Telf crawled to his father’s side. On his knees, he checked his breath and eyes. “Papa,” he screamed. “Please!” He tried to look at his mother, kneeling next to him, but the tears blurred everything.

  “Gothar.” Bigge held his jaw. “Come on,” he said and tapped his brother’s cheeks left and right. “Come on, this can’t be it.” Pressing down on the hole in Gothar’s chest, his older brother repeated himself over and over. “Come on!”

  Surrounded by a veil of burned arcanium, Aurick wiped his chin and sheathed his dagger. “Why can’t you idiots just do what you’re told?!” He kicked at Gothar’s feet, which made Roda twitch out of her stare to the ground.

  “Young lord,” said the retainer behind Aurick, but didn’t dare to touch him. “This–” His eyes caught those of Roda, who wandered slowly up Aurick’s body, with her knuckles sunken into the mud. The bearded man mouthed a silent ‘No’ at her. Many of the peasants were reaching for her, as they saw the same future…

  “Aurick, we must leave. The other villages; and–” The other retainer took over, placing his hand close to the knight’s chest without connecting. “Your father won’t like this,” he said, threateningly.

  “Y–” The young lord looked around the village. “Y–, yes,” he stammered. “We have work to do. As have you!” he commanded the peasants. “You heard my Father’s orders.” He backed away. His lackeys paved the way for him by shoving everyone aside until they reached their steeds. “Do as you’re told,” he said, before mounting his jet black horse and spurring it. “We’ll check on the snail progress!”

  Roda heard nothing around her, and felt no touch on her. Her gaze lingered on the horses until they were gone. Like in her dreams, she looked at her husband. Her dirty hands ran over his clothes where the hole was burned. With her nails, she tore it even wider. “I–” Her voice broke. “I’ll–” Her words were slurred, and she still heard the hooves drumming on her heart. Only when Telf wrapped his arms around her did she return from her dream.

  “He’s dead,” wailed her son, and his tears invited Roda’s green eyes to join him. Crying, she embraced Telf and was soon enough joined by Bigge, his children and everyone around them.