Men of the Soil and the Hammer

[stonegolem]

One week after Void and Puriel were banished from the realm, it began to snow on Chiram's Hollow, covering the trampled and bloodstained earth with a quiet layer of white. The weary soldiers and engineers of the military of Eire retreated behind the bastion fires, taking up arms and aiming crossbows at the treelines, waiting for the bodies of their still-unburied comrades to burst from the ground and stagger toward the living. They knew that no throng of adventurers would come to save them from the undead this day.

But no corpses rose, and the dead did not walk. For three days, as the snowdrifts grew and the night winds howled around the keeps and walls, the soldiers waited with clenched teeth and white knuckles for the assault they knew would come. For three more days, as the sun returned and beamed its watery white light through the clouds of late autumn, the soldiers watched as the snows receded and became red and brown slush, carrying the blood of the final victory off into the rivers and down to the oceanside, where still the driftwood of the Beast's terrible coming washed ashore and carried with it the scrapped tabards of Sadeen Moore and Landon.

And finally, when all that remained were twisted, frozen corpses, lying unmoving beneath the clear cold skies, the soldiers cautiously returned to the bitter duty of consigning their friends and loved ones to the earth. They clawed at the ground with their mattocks and spades, opening great graves and laying the dead to rest as surely as they were planting seeds; raking the soil over them, saying a few words of remembrance, taking swords and shields and wands to be distributed to the families who waited still for a word, any word.

Those that remained would later admit to one another over a tankard that the feel of a spade in the hands had always felt more natural than a spear. These were soldiers born of desperation and conscription - no battle-hardened mercenaries like the Sons of Thunder and Daughters of the Storm, no lifelong servicemen like the Partisans and Sky-Riders of Sadeen Moore, and certainly no wealthy and powerful arsenals-for-hire like the adventurers who gathered beneath the bending rafters of the Vulgar Gargoyle. These were men of the soil and of the hammer, and in their minds the seeds of realization were planted.

Come spring, the farm would need tending.

-------------------------------------------

"It's treason," said Conamar in his gruff, flat voice, looking about at the seated Council. "Desertion from the military in a time of war is a crime punishable by death. By leaving your post, you are inviting the enemy to attack. They ought to be rounded up and executed."

"This is an entire village worth of men and women," returned Norhelm, looking up from the map where leaden figurines and tiny canvas flags marked movement. The island in the middle of the map looked like a gaily-festooned porcupine, covered in Eirean green and Sadeen Moore red and Thelucian blue and the pale white that stood for bone and dead flesh animated by foul magic. He plucked the largest of the white flags, and moved it north, past the scratched-out ruin of North Fortress. "The Queen herself reports that Chith -- excuse me, the Withering -- quit the field that day. The Withering itself has retreated, and taken with it its cursed influence. Come spring, we expect Chiram's Hollow to be as fecund as the Harvestlands."

"That's not the point, Jacob!" rasped Conamar, slapping the table with the flat of his palm. "Even if one enemy has been temporarily inconvenienced, our foes still teem at the gates. Our peace with Sadeen Moore hangs by the threads of Pure Lord Califus' continued good pleasure. The undead still remain in pockets and fortresses, in desperate need of routing before they take it upon themselves to sortie against undefended villages." His lips twisted in a sneer. "Landon, of course, has yet to spend a single day without sending another letter to one of his fellow barons, no doubt full of incendiary sedition and encouragement to rise up. And this after we sent that son of his home full of every concession we were apparently willing to grant like genies handing out wishes."

"It is the point, Isiah. With one powerful foe in retreat, now is no time to be making new enemies. I am referring to the people," Norhelm proceeded, raising a hand to quell the dwarf's sputtered objection. "If Corinthius Landon is stirring the people to rebellion, now is the time to win their hearts, not execute them for wanting to go back to the homes they have fought for so many years to protect. These are farmers and blacksmiths, my friend, not career soldiers. When this war started, many of these boys and girls showed up with rusty heirloom escutcheons and pitchforks to use as pikes. Now they want to go back to what they were born to do, which is live their lives as citizens of Eire." Murmurs came from all sides of the table, some in agreement, others in dissent.

"Let them go," came the voice of the Princess Arianne, seated at the head of the table in her mother's ornate, high-backed chair. Her halberd was leaned carelessly against the back of the chair, and she wore a plain dress beneath which the crunch and twinkle of chainmail was clearly audible in her every movement. She jingled forward, leaning both arms onto the council table. "Paladin Norhelm is right. We cannot make enemies of our own people. Mother has always declared the people to be the heart of the nation, and I would not disregard her council even though she is no longer here."

Conamar smiled into his beard, his voice going soft. "Your Highness. No one at this table doubts your mother's wisdom, but if we allow this desertion to set precedent, we could very well be faced with a mass event. If one village goes home, soon enough you'll see all the villages-"

"Let them all go, then. We still have the Sons and the Daughters, and they are sworn by blood and by gold to my hand. They will serve as our protectors in this time of rebuilding. They, and you, my Paladins, and the Justicars. The knights, and their squires. I will hold those who wear the belt accountable to it." Arianne glanced around the table, looking into the eyes of each of the assembled Paladins. Some nodded firm assent. Others, including the irascible Conamar, plainly revealed hesitation.

"I decree it, my Lords. Does the Council stand in unanimous opposition to the word of the Crown?"

Conamar sighed heavily, sinking back into his chair and glaring daggers at the emphatically head-shaking Norhelm. "No, Your Highness, we do not."

"Then let it be so. Release the villagers and let them go home, and let any who would follow them do so. By order of the Princess Regent, we will begin our hard-earned peace. Even you, Paladin Conamar."

 

[stonegolem]

It was three months after the battle, and the snows had turned to icy sleeting rain. Horatio Sullivan stood in an antechamber, rolling his fingers over the brim of his ill-fitting straw hat as he stood waiting to be summoned. The chamber beyond, with its enormous table of shining mahogany and its high-backed chairs filled with Paladins and Queens Regent, suited him poorly and he knew it. His place was among the trees and with his hands in the dirt, caking filth beneath his fingertips as he coaxed food from the frozen ground with a little magic and a lot of patience. A sour look passed his lips when he noticed, not for the first time, that his fingernails were clean and his fingers were soft and pink like they had been at the academy.

He waited on the pleasure of the Princess, although he knew that she would be cordial and indeed perhaps even delighted to see him. Arianne was a warrior with a kind heart, the sort he met very rarely; more than that, she was a statesperson in spite of herself, thrust into the peculiarities of rule by the whim of fate and left to sink or swim. Just like him. He could count on that, perhaps even rely on it - he'd cultivated that ridiculous folksy accent specifically to throw people off their game and underestimate him. Perhaps the Paladins would follow suit. After all, he thought with a chuckle, it was true that he was little more than a farmer.

The Paladins were the real issue. Horatio had no illusions regarding the poor opinion of the vast majority of Eireans concerning Thelucia, Thelucians, Thelucian politics, Thelucian diplomacy, Thelucian magic, and most words starting with the letters "the-". It was enough to make him grind his molars, but it was his cross to bear, on behalf of the huddled few who still clung to the traditional values of the Thelucia he had grown up in. Knowledge for the sake of foresight. Power for the sake of preparedness. Scholarship for the betterment of all. There were a couple thousand of them left, squatting among the trees of White Forest, trading their wands for spades and their spellbooks for hammers, waiting for the day when they could return to their studies and invite others to join them. Horatio had come, his literal hat in his literal hand, to beg the Paladins for their aid in giving those few thousand a real home.

He had just begun to rehearse his speech, in which he more or less stood prepared to accept full responsibility for the countless evils that had been afflicted by "traitorous rogue mages," when the doors to the antechamber burst open. A young-looking elf in green-and-white livery hurried in, and paused with her hands on her knees to catch ragged gasps of breath. The elf clutched a message scroll, crumpled in her fist, and she offered it up to Horatio to read. "Food stores..." the courier panted. "Word from logistics says there isn't three-- three years. It's three months, my Lord. Three months of food. I-- I have to see the Council immediately."

Horatio's face grew ashen as he read the note. Three months of food. Five, if immediate civil rationing went into effect. What meat, beer and grain that hadn't been put to the torch by the Withering's forces had been devoured by an army in need of fuel to fight through the chill of autumn. There was barely enough left to last until the harvest, and that assumed that the land would indeed return fertile after the Withering's retreat. The specter of death again hung over Eire... and this time, it would be the common folk who would perish. Visions of food riots danced in the sorcerer-farmer's head.

The doors to the Council chamber opened with a formal whoosh of air, and a herald peeked into the antechamber. "High Mage, the Council will see you now. May I present you?"

"This young lady has precedence over me," Horatio returned. He crammed the note back into the courier's hand, gave her a friendly-but-urgent shove into the Council chamber, and crammed his little hat onto his head. "I've got to get back to the farm."

-------------------------------------------

Corinthius, Baron of Landon, was seated on the edge of his massive four-post bed, wearing only a long nightshirt and a pair of woolen slippers. He was staring at himself in the full-length mirror, housed in its cherry frame. His gaze fixed, as it tended to do these days, on his ponderous belly; not for the first time or the last, he wished himself young and fit again. He was a proud man, and willing to admit to himself that he was a vain one as well. This early morning's displeasure, however, focused entirely on an image he did not wish to present to the world - the rich man, fat while others must go lean.

The Baron rose from his bed, and dressed in solemn silence. Dawn was already tinting the blue-black sky outside his window with the first strains of rose and peach, and he found that ironic; there would be no roses with his wine tonight, nor peaches with his breakfast. Today he would dine among the people, out in the great courtyard, sharing the meager bowls that his larder would provide. His stomach grumbled in sympathetic protest, and was quickly silenced by the strapping on of his white baron's belt. It was an easy sacrifice to make. The gold he would soon spill from between his outstretched fingers was not.

Young Mazri awaited him outside his doorstep, every inch the quiet, studious warrior that his mother was. Corinthius forced himself to mask the pangs of regret that flooded him upon seeing Radha's face writ large in the son, for her sacrifice demanded he uphold that noble family's honor in this serious young man. Instead, he gruffly accepted aid in donning his surcoat and the heavy gold chain that marked his office, and together they proceeded into the warded study down the hall, to begin the day's affairs. Later in the afternoon, this young Mazri would join his baron among the commons, eating from the same bowls, hearing the same petitions, and -- here Corinthius could not help but smile -- experiencing the same annoyances.

The first notice of the day was a small note sealed in wax, with a curious stamp pressed into the letter. The Baron looked down at the stamp for a long, long moment, before carefully prying the note open and reading its contents. It was a message that demanded action, and it was signed with initials he had been waiting almost half a year to see. Corinthius furrowed his great brow.

"Squire," he said slowly. "Today, your business must be set aside in favor of urgent tasks. When we have concluded here, you are to ride to Authenrai and fetch my son."

"I understand, Excellency," came the reply. "And before that?"

"Fetch a quill. You will send the following letter to the editor of the Shiny Dreadfuls." Corinthius cleared his throat, to mask the rapidly-clicking wheels of his mind. "To whom it may concern; once again, catastrophe looms over the realm of Eire..."

 

[stonegolem]

Ria Sevaria of the Goshawk stood on a promontory overlooking the sea. Salt winds slashed at her face, cold and raw, and her nostrils flared as she breathed deeply the scent of wintry tides crashing against the rocky shore of the Hollow. She could hear the hue and cry of the tribesmen below, loading the long leather vessels that would carry them across the narrow strait to the southwest, where the Crown had directed all able-bodied warriors. Already the trees were falling in the forests south of Stoneroost, and humans and human-friends had begun to set up camps where prospectors and scouts would sortie from to claim more wealth for the Kingdom. Her eyes were drawn to a seagull screaming overhead as it made its way into the distance. Ordinarily, such birds said "my bread," or "my mate," and little else of note - this one screamed a warning, and it disquieted the elf to no end.

Her hand tensed on the hilt of her sword when she heard the jingling approach of footsteps, aware of how foolish such nervous display was - if you could hear them, you were already dead. Nonetheless, she spoke. "Ria Beah," she said with a formal lilt, not looking behind herself. "You've got to learn to muffle your mail."

To her credit, the Queen Emeritus had the grace to bow her head in acknowledgement of the rebuke. "You're right, Ria Sevaria. I will tend to it before we depart." Beah took a place next to Sevaria, looking out over the angry northern waves, watching them beat themselves to death against the foamy stone. "I dreamed last night. You were in it."

Sevaria turned to look at Beah's serious face, her eyes careworn, lined with the weight of many burdens. "Not for the first time?"

"No. But this time, it was very clear, and the visions remained after I awoke. I stepped outside of my tent and put my hands to the earth. The land is weeping." Beah raised her palms to show the elf what she meant. They were covered in a viscous black ooze, bits of soil clinging to the sticky fluid. "It's some kind of oil. I have not seen its like. It's... a natural substance, but certainly not benign. Like a tumor."

Sevaria reached out and ran a finger against the fluid. It felt like oil of slipperiness beneath her touch, but stuck to her finger and thumb when she rolled it between her digits. "What do you suppose it means?" she asked, wiping her fingers against a bit of rough cloth tied to her orange-runed belt. "Besides the fact that you need to wash your hands."

Beah smiled lightly, but her face quickly grew serious once more. "It means something - or some things - are awakening. Beneath the earth. The land is crying out in pain. I have already informed the Legion, and now I am informing the Hierophan." She shifted from one foot to the other, adjusting the hilt of her greatsword against her shoulder.

"Norhelm was here?" Sevaria turned to look down at the beach, as if by doing so she could somehow spy the Paladin.

"No. I told the dragon. Thauphidian."

-------------------------------------------

Warlord Yortuk, the All-Mighty High Chief, Master of the Rot Slayer Clan, Sovereign Pay-Taker of the North Roads, and several other meaningless titles that various skalds and bootlickers had applied to him, sat scowling at a vial of inky black liquid. He turned it over and over in his hand, suspicious of the way it seemed to eat up the light of the fire that reflected in the glass of the bottle itself. It seemed unwholesome. Cowardly, in a way, like the sort of thing a weak man would use to pretend to be strong. He couldn't figure out why the man they took it from had been so desperate to keep a hold of it.

That had taken him and his warriors by surprise. The little man had turned out his pockets, picking through piles of grubby copper and useless baubles, looking for some means to pay the fee to be allowed through... but when one of the swordsorcs had found the little vial wrapped up in an old sock, the screeching and clawing and hysterical tears hadn't stopped until they'd opened the poor bastard's throat with a well-placed arrow. Yortuk couldn't understand what would possibly be worth all that trouble, to die at the feet of a dozen well-armed guards for the sake of a sip of what looked like water from a blacksmith's slack tub.

The fur-lined flap to his great tent opened, carrying with it a blast of frozen night wind and the horned elf shaman. The shaman knelt at Yortuk's feet, silently awaiting his warlord's attention. Yortuk, just as wordlessly, passed over the vial for the shaman's perusal.

"It's black magic," said the horned elf, in his stark, stentorian voice. He opened the vial, sniffed it, let a drop of the oily fluid fall onto his fingertip and roll into the dirt floor of the tent. "Conjured by your enemies, to weaken your warriors' will and take by guile that which belongs only to you, my Warlord." The shaman flung the glass vial into the fire, where it burst in a tinkle of shattered shards. "Any one who keeps this substance and does not fling it into the fire must be slain. They are your enemy."

Yortuk's brow furrowed, and his fist clenched. "You pretty easy wit' callin' people my enemy, Sonorous," he growled. "Maybe dat stuff is somethin' we can use to make us stronger. You didn't even let someone drink it."

Sonorous bowed his head. "Forgive me, my Warlord. It is not my intention to take power away from you, who deserves all the power in the North. It is just that the magic of that vial is not something my magic can counteract. If your warriors were to drink it, and it proved harmful, I cannot help them. I leave the decision to you." The horned elf rose to leave.

"Wait," said the orc warlord, also rising. "You got a point. Maybe next time, we make whoever comes in wit' dat stuff drink it. Dat way we can see what's what, ya?" He offered the shaman a conciliatory grin, full of tusks and broken teeth.

"You are wise," replied the shaman, turning once more toward his chieftain. "Again I am glad that you saw fit to bring me to your tent and allow me to advise you, for I have learned much from you this day." He opened his cloak, and drew from it a bag of yellow gold, gleaming ruddy in the firelight. "And now, my Chief. You must count your earnings from the latest caravan. They were Eirean, clad in green and white."

Warlord Yortuk's grin grew ever fiercer, as he eagerly reached for the coin.

-------------------------------------------

"She is no warrior," said the biata. He tossed the sheaf of papers back onto the desk, where they scattered across the wood. "The adventurers of Chiram's Hollow respect only might. That has been made repeatedly clear. If your goals do not align precisely with their own, you must be willing and able to wrestle them into submission."

Dame Tavistock's lips thinned into a straight line as she reached for the sheet of paper that had fallen from the desk. She shuffled the papers and restored them to order as she spoke. "She wrestles with her mind and her heart, not her strength of arms. She has proven herself a capable administrator, and moreover, a leader. Your job is to be the soldier."

"With all due respect, my Lady, my job is to be a magistrate. Soldiering is for soldiers. I can do one or the other, but not both. That was Crowe's downfall." The biata's claws clicked on the pommel of his short sword. Tavistock privately decided, in that moment, that she did not like this man.

"Victarion Crowe was a great man and we are all the lesser for his loss," she replied evenly.

"I would never disagree with such a sentiment, my Lady. I had the honor of meeting that fine man once. His military bearing and strong heart were matched only by his sense of justice." The biata returned to his seat and looked Dame Tavistock in the eye. "That is precisely why I will succeed where he failed. My sense of justice is matched by nothing."

"And that is why she will accompany you," replied Tavistock, slapping the folder as if she had made a killing point. "You cannot hope to win over the Hollow with justice alone. She will act as seneschal, and you will act as magistrate."

The biata returned her gaze silently for a long moment, before replying in slow, measured cadence. "As you say. However, between the two of us, the Crown has left out the soldier."

Tavistock smiled. "We shall simply have to appoint a third, then, shall we not?"