The King's Reckoning
IC time is: < midday >
IC date is: Autumn
IC year is: 3183 S.A.
LOCATION: Tarlang
Tarlang - a clearing open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by forested slopes, nestled in the foothills of the White Mountains. Here for generations men have lived and worked the land, hunted in the forest and fished the nearby rivers. Here and there in the sprawling patchwork of fields that surrounds the village proper, sheaves of freshly cut grain have been neatly stacked and left to dry in the sun. Normally at this hour the fields would be a scene of labour, but today they seem strangely empty, for most of the able-bodied have joined the hunting party that left the previous day. However, from the circle of huts at the centre of the clearing, thin wisps of smoke wind their way up into the autumn sky.
Outside one such hut sits Fidah, the village leatherworker. She is wearing a simple garment of dun-coloured wool, and her curling brown hair is held back from her eyes by a leather thong. She is busy cleaning a hide, which she has stretched out on a wooden framework. Her movements are supple, graceful, revealing her energy and vigour. Once Fidah would have gone with the hunters - indeed, in her youth she was renowned for her skill with the throwing-spear - but no longer. The reason for that lies in the basket by her side - a six-month-old babe sleeps peacefully within. From the way that Fidah pauses every now and then to glance at a group of nearby children playing in the dirt, it is obvious that at least one of these must also be hers.
The scraper is old and dulled, and it is with great effort that Fidah works the leather. Eventually she sighs and halts her efforts, heading into the hut to return moments later with a rounded stone. Holding the scraper securely in one hand, with the other she tries to sharpen the tool's edge by knocking off small chips of stone. A misplaced blow causes the scraper to crack, and Fidah stops with a muffled exclamation, springing to her feet. A movement outside the village catches her attention, and she peers with interest - and some trepidation. The boy who has been set to watch Tarlang's small flock of goats is conversing with someone - a man, by the height of him, and carrying a bulky haversack. The man says something and the boy gestures towards the village in reply. The man nods, shoulders his pack and starts along the path - Fidah can see that once his back is turned the boy makes a gesture to ward off the evil eye. Alarmed now, she watches the stranger approach - for as he comes closer Fidah can see that he is not a fellow villager.
At first glance the man appears little different from any other, save that he is tall, perhaps about six feet in height. His skin is swarthy, weather-beaten from long days spent outdoors, his build rugged. His clothing is normal enough, though a little shabby - crude leather moccasins, worn and scuffed, and tunic and trousers of a coarse greyish cloth. He is dark-haired, and wears a short beard. On his back is a large haversack of strong hide stretched over a wooden frame, obviously heavy judging by his posture. Perhaps he is a peddler or trader of some kind.
The man halts before Fidah's hut, one of the first dwellings he reaches. Fidah stifles a gasp as she sees the reason for the boy's reaction - the stranger has a malformed lip. She looks away for a moment, but then forces herself to raise her head again.
"Good day to you," the man says, his speech clear enough despite his deformity.
"And to you, stranger," Fidah responds, before asking bluntly, and a little suspiciously, "What brings you to Tarlang?"
"I am Barzag, a knapper of fine tools," the stranger answers, "and I am here to sell my wares. Although it seems there are few folk around to buy them..." He glances round the unusually quiet village.
"There's a hunt in progress," Fidah responds almost absently. She looks the fellow up and down, before seeming to come to a decision. "I'll not deceive you, knapper," she tells him. "A trader passed through two weeks ago, selling the hard metal. Few here will wish for new tools of stone."
At this, Barzag's shoulders slump, his twisted lips press tightly together and there is a bitterness in his amber eyes. With sudden insight, Fidah sees that here is one who is a few years older than herself at most, yet he has the eyes of an old man. There is pity in her tone as she says more gently, "But I, Fidah, at least have need of such a tool. I'll give you a pair of shoes in return for a scraper. And old Cordag the goatherd will likely exchange some of his cheeses for a new knife."
Barzag sighs. "I had hoped for more. But still ... Beggars cannot be choosers. You are a worker of leather?" His eye falls on the part-scraped hide. "What can I trade you for a new leather tunic?"
Fidah eyes him thoughtfully. This man is taller than most, and has a broad frame, though his clothes hang loosely, as if he has not been eating well. There is still that prepared deerskin left over from last winter; it will be surplus, as long as the hunters are successful... "I'm not sure," she murmurs.
Barzag's shoulders droop a little further. "You have nothing suitable?" he queries.
"I didn't say that," Fidah answers. "Let me think ... Ryad, stop that!" She moves swiftly forward to grab the arm of her three-year-old son, who has picked up the broken scraper and is hacking away at a piece of leather in imitation of his mother - this one unfortunately a finished blank for a moccasin, which had been waiting only a thong to gather it. Gazing ruefully at the scuffed material, Fidah sighs crossly. Still holding the boy, she looks up at Barzag to say, "I can give you a tunic in exchange for a good-quality hand axe and two-dozen spear points."
Barzag raises an eyebrow. "Two dozen? That's rather a steep price. I'll give you one dozen. And I'll have to make the hand-axe. I don't carry them; most folk prefer handled tools. Fortunately I still have one nodule unworked - it'll take time though."
Fidah flashes a smile, showing two rows of even, though slightly yellowed, teeth. "And did you think your tunic would just appear out of thin air? Fine, I'll give it to you for the hand-axe and one dozen spearpoints." She is too distracted right now to bargain further. She tells Barzag, "You can stay here for a day or two, until the tunic and the axe are ready. And," she adds in warning, "we may be few, but we are quite capable of defending ourselves. So don't even think about any trickery."
There is a flash of pain in Barzag's amber eyes. "Do you account me of so little honour?"
Fidah lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "One never knows with knappers. Now, if you'll excuse me..." She hunkers down beside the now-wailing Ryad to explain just why mamma is upset with him this time.
With so few in the village, there is no real need to use the communal hearth for cooking, but as the evening draws on, folk gather round the fire for companionship, gossip and - since there is a stranger in their midst - news.
Barzag speaks little, though he responds politely enough if spoken to. He has accepted the cup of steaming tea offered to him, and now sits cross-legged a little way away from the others, at the edge of the circle of firelight - almost as if he is trying to stay out of sight.
Fidah, who has just finished nursing her daughter Tallah, looks up to lock eyes with Andra, one of the younger women. The two glance towards Barzag, their natural suspicion of strangers warring with their desire for tales from afar. Eventually Fidah's curiosity gets the better of her, and she addresses the knapper directly. "Tell us, knapper - where had you been before you came here? And what is the news? We don't get to hear about far-off places very often."
Barzag raises his head to look directly at the woman. "I passed through Nareg. And before that, Lamach." There are some murmurings at this - few in Tarlang have travelled so far, or would even wish to.
"In Nareg, the talk was all of the headman's daughter, who is to wed at the autumn festival," Barzag continues.
"To whom?" Andra asks, eyes sparkling with sudden interest. "What's he like? Is it a good match?"
Barzag turns his head, and she looks away quickly, unwilling to gaze directly at him. "I have never met the man, so I could not tell you," he replies, a hint of coldness in his tone. "But folk seemed satisfied with the match. They say he will make a good headman, when the present one joins the spirits."
"As long as this fellow doesn't stir up trouble," mutters old Erlad darkly, shifting position to ease his stiff joints. "Nareg raided us once, when I was but a lad ..."
There is an uncomfortable silence, as a tangible aura of mistrust hangs in the air. Breaking this silence, Fidah asks quickly, "And what of Lamach?"
"Lamach is a troubled place now," Barzag tells his audience. "There is much fear of the Go-Hilleg. For several seasons they have been pushing inland from the Star River, felling the forests and claiming the land as their own. If they reach Lamach, it will suffer the fate of other villages to the east - the Go-Hilleg will destroy the land and subjugate the people. But few of the folk of Lamach wish to leave the home of their ancestors." There is much nodding of heads at this last statement, but little real alarm - after all, what happens in far distant Lamach can surely have little effect on the lives of folk here?
Erland spits. "Curse the Go-Hilleg. They bring nothing but trouble. I myself believe that they are not men, but demons."
"Men they are, for all their great size," Barag replies mildly.
"And what manner of men destroy all that is in their path?" counters Erland. "That is more the way of the Orc-folk." He scowls.
Barzag shakes his head. "Say not destroy - rather they seek ever to bend the Earth to their will, along with all who dwell in it. And in the end they will succeed - either we yield or we die. They are like a great wind from the Sea, sweeping along everything in their path. Folk cannot avoid them for ever."
Andra looks up in puzzlement. "Avoid them? Why would we want to? They bring the hard metal. And other nice things too." Her hand reaches up to her head, where her dark tresses are held back by a silver clasp, decorated with blue glass in the form of a leaping dolphin.
Barzag's face darkens. "And they bring the yoke of dependence. Already men here begin to rely on their gifts. The old skills are being slowly forgotten. Soon men, greedy for what the Go-Hilleg have to offer, will accept them as rulers - and realize too late what they have lost. Yet, what choice is left, now?" He chokes off his words, the bitterness in his voice mirrored in his eyes as he stares fiercely into the fire.
Fidah listens silently to the exchange, rocking the sleeping Tallah in her arms, with Ryad curled up by her side. Now, as the wind begins to gust, blowing sparks from the fire in her direction, she rises to her feet. "It is getting dark," she states simply. "I, at least, wish to sleep. Stranger, there is a place by the door if my hut if you wish it."
"I would not wish to burden anyone...," Barzag begins.
With a tinge of irritation, Fidah says, "Here in Tarlang we follow the laws of hospitality, whatever they may do in the other outlandish places you've been. An offer accepted honours the giver. Or," she pauses momentarily, "are you trying to insult us?"
Golden eyes glare back at her. "I insult no-one," Barzag replies, keeping his tone even. "Thank you for your kindness." He stands, lifts his pack to his shoulder and steps round the fire, stopping to murmur to the woman in a low voice, "but I do not require your pity."
Fidah, startled, almost loses her grip on the drowsy Ryad for an instant. Not bothering to answer, she turns away and, tightening her hand around her son's again, begins to walk back towards her own hut, leaving the knapper to follow as best he can.
[A day later]
Sighing softly as he uses a soft-edged retoucher to knock away one final chip, the knapper holds the finished item up to the light for inspection. A watery sun breaks through the clouds, and shines on the hand-axe, its light dancing off the many smooth surfaces of the flint. Barzag turns the axe this way and that, searching for signs of any flaw. At last, satisfied, he lowers the tool to the ground and begins to clear up the debris, of which there is much - the technique for making a hand-axe is a wasteful one, one reason why the knapper prefers to produce handled tools. He carefully gathers the stone chips in a piece of leather for disposal away from the village. Shaking the dust from his tunic - and dislodging a few more chips of stone in the process - he goes in search of Fidah.
The leather-worker has also been busy. She is currently putting the final stitches to the seam of the tunic. She looks up briefly as Barzag approaches, then returns to her stitching, only raising her head after she has tied off the thread.
"Is it ready?" Barzag asks.
Fidah frowns thoughtfully. "Perhaps - but surely you'll be wanting it decorated?"
Barzag shakes his head. "I want something that will provide protection from stone chips, not a garment for a festival. No, decoration is not necessary."
"Here you are then." Fidah rises to her feet and holds out the finished garment for inspection. "Well? Aren't you going to try it for size?"
Barzag accepts the tunic, turning it in his hand as if uncertain what to do with it. At Fidah's words, he says, "Very well. Here, then," thrusting the hand-axe at her with further ado. As she peers critically at it, Barzag pulls the old tunic over his head and dons the new one in a single fluid movement.
Fidah surveys him with a tailor's eye. "Hmm, perhaps it's a little too loose at the shoulders?" she murmurs, stepping forward to tug at the material. "Or perhaps not ..." She moves back and looks him up and down. "No," she pronounces at last, "you'll do."
Barzag says nothing, gazing back at her intently.
Unnerved by the gaze, Fidah quickly drops her eyes. "That's a fine hand-axe you've made," she says, raising it. "My man Talbar will be well pleased."
"I am glad you find it acceptable," is Barzag's response.
Fidah smiles. "I am sure Talbar will thank you himself on his return. How long will you be staying?"
Barzag frowns. "A few days at most."
Fidah's eyes open wide in surprise. "But surely you'll remain here until the autumn festival at least? It is a time of great joy and celebration."
Barzag shakes his head. "I need to get back to my own people. I have wandered far in search of stone, and it is a long journey back to the winter camp. And," he adds softly, "can you truly say that I would be welcome? One such as I, who is cursed by the spirits?"
There is a baby's cry from within the hut, and Fidah seizes gratefully on the chance to avoid answering the question. "I must go - Tallah is waking," she says quickly. Looking up at the tall knapper, she adds, "Stay tonight, at least. It will rest you before your journey. And I hope that you will remember that Tarlang holds a welcome for the traveller, should you wish to return." With that she is gone, ducking into the hut.
Gazing after her, Barzag answers, his voice pitched so low that it is unlikely she hears, "One in Tarlang, at least, I will remember."
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