The Riven Shield (Mystic Seasons Mythopoeia I)

Chapter 3.1

"You! Stop where you are!"

Bawn did not stop. His long legs carried him swiftly down the rubble and out of the ruins. His skin was faintly golden, and his face implacable. As Maggitha picked her way to her daughter the guards who had betrayed them faced the newcomer with grim decision.

Straight swords rang out of their sheathes, and the impending conflict between Graham and Blawd was for the moment forgotten. The rider who had called out the warning now raised his loaded crossbow. There was a steely twang as the quarrel whistled just to the side of the barbarian's head. The guard cursed, and another crossbow was fired. This quarrel was off completely.

Maggitha helped Kerrigan to her feet. The girl's hair was tangled, and its red sheen was dimmed by dust and soil. Her eyes were wild.

Graham kicked his mule forward, and the bulky creature broke into a casual trot. It was not meant for fighting on, but he wanted to keep the height against his over-sized opponent. The other guards, all but Blawd, moved to surround.

Graham's blood was thrumming in his temples. He had never been so frightened. In all his years of service on the estate he had never looked upon anything half so portentous as this man striding out of Ten Towers. His first thought had been of ghosts and cursed grounds. But no, this barbarian was solid as any man, as real. Only a man, a naked one at that. The bite of a tallo blade would put him to rights, then Blawd could be dealt with in his turn.

The sword came down, flashing in the sunflower's regard, and Bawn caught it in one hand. With a twist of his wrist the tallo bent, and his other fist pistoned, once. The mule's head exploded. Graham was suddenly falling, and he didn't understand why. He didn't understand anything except that he was on his back and his armor was very heavy and his face was very warm. Was it raining? Such thick rain. And bitter tasting. He had been indentured as a young man, his family had needed the coin. Now that his contract was forfeit, he would take what loot he could and make a home of his own, a family,and he would never sell his sons. He had thought he would go north to Petronia. He had heard they did not indenture there, and it was so far that no one would have heard of Grape, let alone of the Lumlali estate.

Blawd watched as the barbarian dismantled his associates, even killing the mules. Everything within the reach of those massive hands seemed to disintegrate, flesh, leather, scale. Blawd knocked the woman away from her daughter. Little Kerry was the most valuable spoil of this expedition, even spoiled.

The girl squealed when he tossed her over his shoulder. He liked how she squealed. He expected to hear a good bit more of it in the near future. Setting off at an easy lope, he left the miniature caravan behind. In the woods his mule would be no good, another burden. This way he could keep up the pace for half a day.

He heard Maggitha wail. Stupid woman. He should have run her through. Only a whimper from the girl as he adjusted his grip.

That was good.

And he hit a wall.

Bawn looked down at the unconscious bandit, and then he looked at the fire haired girl drawing her knees up to her chest, sitting, and gazing up at him with enormous moss colored eyes.

* * *

Carrolan is a realm of endless fields, and hardly a hill or roll. The few rare mottes are all long claimed by castles or keeps, though many of them sit empty but for the winds. Emptiness is something of a theme here, and in this bread basket of the three kingdoms many fields lie fallow and unfurrowed. There is no need for so much space.

A man walks along one such useless stretch, claimed as it is by scraggly alders and mice and scrub. HE wears a plain brown cloak, and his long frame is stooped with age, though his step remains sure and quick. In his hand there is a corroded silver flask.

The sun hangs fully bloomed in the canopy of the sky, and arcing jagged shadows trace the upper boughs of the world tree above the sun. They are strokes of midnight in the otherwise misty blue and violet expanse. The keep of Loesser dominates a raised knuckle of earth, not especially defensible, but with clear views to all horizons. The town that surrounds it hosts no more than a thousand, and the farmlands extending half a riders day in any direction belong exclusively to the Lord of the Keep. The scattered families that till and sow these fields are servants of that Lord, tenants in servitude.

The old walker in his brown cloak sets his gaze upon Loesser, for it is in this place that he senses a spark that he can use.

* * *

Mok carried his masters trencher to the high table. The lords of Loesser sat facing the hall of their subjects from a raised step. Midlim Loss, the young lord of the Keep, accepted his meal genially enough, and immediately dismissed Mok from his mind. This one servant was unlike the others, or so Midlim's father had said. He had always seemed common enough, and he certainly filled the wine goblet of his master no more or less skillfully than the other common folk.

And they were all below his notice.

"She had tits," Davim Loss said. He was first Duke, younger brother to the young lord, and thoroughly lost in his reverie. "Tits like anything." His hands described their grand expanses. "I could have hid between them."

Idiot, Midlim thought, outwardly smiling. Like the servants, Davim had his place. If it was his right hand seat, so be it. Father always counseled patience, at least where family was concerned.

Mok waited in silence. Speaking would not have occurred to him. He was seventeen, and he was the twenty-third of his name. What the family name of his forefathers had been was not recorded in any journal belonging to the Loesses. It had been expunged. They had rebelled, or so the story went, the details lost. They had rebelled, and through perfidy slain their rightful lord before the insurrection was put down. In perpetuity, the line was kept close, but under heel.

"Why not just kill them? I would kill them," Midlim had once asked, having attained the world weary age of seven without yet being allowed to personally murder anyone. Tyme Kent, his grandfather and the Abdicated master of Loesser had not been surprised at the question.

"It's the spark that is corrupt. Kill them all, and the spark goes free to infest an innocent body. Keep them close, and the sickness of the soul that causes a good vassal to turn is confined and harmless. What your Mok, as I watched mine. They can never be trusted, but they are not dangerous as long as we keep them close. There has not been a rebellion in five hundred years."

Superstition. Hokum. That is what Midlim had long ago decided. Mok was a hereditary manservant, nothing more. If there had been rebellion in his forefathers eyes it was long since drained away. In those eyes there was only the ungleaming quietude of a lifelong slave.

After the meal had been taken, the lords of Loesser would go on their afternoon ride. The duties of any given noble-born personage consisted chiefly of eating, riding, oppressing the populace and carousing: not necessarily in that order. If time could be found for sleep, it would be enjoyed as well. Wearing fine clothing and being bathed by the unblooded lesserfolk were also among the burdens of the aristocracy.

"She was a pretty one," David went on and on. "So pretty I couldn't stand the thought of any peasant dirt-turner ever laying her. She said I was her first but you can never be sure. The taste of her..." His eyes glazed a moment, "I kept her three days. Took her from her father's inn and kept her. But I can't be expected to keep bedding a peasant bitch forever no matter how sweet her mounds, can I? So on the fourth day I do the only thing I can. The only honorable thing. I lay her one last time and strangle her. Then send the body back to the innkeeper."

Midlim watched his brother coolly for a moment, making certain that the story was indeed finished. The punchline had been reached, and that was all. Midlim was twenty and four years of age, and Davim three years his junior.

"Gallant of you," he said at last. They went riding.