[The X Phial]

BELIN'S POST

Wolf scanned the horizon anxiously for signs of his messenger. The dim light revealed nothing, but he continued on in the direction that Fletch ought to be coming from. He was surprised not to have seen him already. The distance between the villages was not this great, not even for a weakling like Fletch. Wolf sighed. He should have known better than to send that fool off on such an important errand, but he did seem to know the land so well, and in any case, what use would he have been in a battle?

He certainly hadn’t been much use so far. Couldn’t he even cover this short distance unaided?

Wolf had always thought that Fletch, despite his gripes and his physical weakness, was at least a courageous man, but it was beginning to occur to him that the errant messenger had taken some of Knife’s less fortunate words to heart and simply decided to stay in the neighboring village where, for now, it was safer. Wolf had even begun to generously bestow a stream of uncomplimentary adjectives on the absent Fletch when he noticed the small, mobile figure of a man in the distance. He rushed toward him.

It was only after he had begun trying to devise the proper words to say to him without knowing, yet, whether the mission had been a success when he realized that this was not Fletch, that this was no any man belonging to his own village. He must be one of Rook’s people. Wolf stopped, eyeing him cautiously. The man had seen him.

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. There were protocols for encounters with Hillmen of other villages, but each knew that the circumstances were no ordinary ones, and each harbored certain new suspicions of the other. The stranger was the first to break the silence. “Good hunting, friend,” he called, his tone anything but friendly.

Wolf laughed grimly at the mundane greeting. “Today I hunt for one of my own. Have you seen a puling, useless little messenger? I had hoped he would return with news, or at least in one piece.” The last sentence held the shadow of a threat, and the stranger knew it. He shrugged carelessly.

“Then I suppose your name is Wolf? I’ve seen your messenger. I must say, I do agree with you; I didn’t take kindly to the way he left. No compliments, no gifts. Then again, he was encouraged to take his leave rather quickly.”

Wolf said nothing. He understood quite clearly that the man was trying to taunt him, but he could not stop the anger from building, palpably, in his body.

The stranger must have seen it, because he grinned slightly and, with a slight gesture of satisfaction, he continued. “Does he leave you this way? He gave us no reason to think we would receive what we had asked, no reason, in truth, to believe that he would even carry our message properly, putting our requests in the most acceptable light. Truly one would think they had offended him, modest as they were for the price that we were asked.” That grin again. Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “I had more to say to him, and I wished to say it in the open. But our business is finished now.”

“Finished?” croaked Wolf.

“I wanted assurance of the weregild and the women. He took offense. He is, as you say, a puling, useless little messenger.”

“Ah,” said Wolf, quietly, “but Rook employs foolish, impudent messengers who do not understand that one cannot demand a price for saving one’s own life, and especially not such a price as this.”

But the other did not hear him. Wolf’s spear was too deeply embedded in his throat.

*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~

Wolf was on his way home when he heard the steady, rhythmic clashes that floated over the hills. It took a moment to register as a variant of a sound he’d heard before; the sound of swords beating against shields, but with more obvious purpose than the haphazard clangs of battle. A sound no Hillman ever made. They did not use shields, preferring the use of both hands and relying on their strength and their reflexes, as well as the inexperience of their usual foes, to protect them from injury; shields were the provenance of professional soldiers. Of the Rangers.

But it was far too close to the village to be the Rangers, thought Wolf as he loped homeward, and he saw no reason why they would do any such thing. All thoughts of Fletch were abandoned as possibilities flashed through Wolf’s mind. Perhaps it was some kind of ceremony. Perhaps they did this merely to amuse themselves, though why they were amusing themselves so far from their settlement, and so soon after the attack, was far beyond his mind to fathom. Still, all their actions were inexplicable, he reminded himself, so this could well be too. It didn’t have to be an attack.

It didn’t have to be an attack.

It didn’t have to be…

But as he reached the crest of the hill, Wolf could see that there were indeed Rangers beating their shields with their swords, apparently in order to frighten the members of his village back into the long line that they were leading away, back toward the settlement.

He stood still, paralyzed. After all that he had done, he had imagined a bloody battle in which most would die. He had imagined that he would be able to protect at least a few. He had thought that he and Bear and a finally reformed Knife would die side by side, giving a few of their people… maybe Kestrel… the opportunity to escape. Maybe those few could have found a new life somewhere else, started a new village, told the tales of this battle to their children for years to come, with tears in their eyes and a note in their voice that hinted at their pride and their sorrow. Surely they would have been clever enough to avoid the eyes of Rook and those like him, and surely the Rangers would find nothing more worth fighting them for. His fear as he left had been precisely this, an attack he could not help to protect them from.

But he never could have predicted this exile. Where under the sky were his determined warriors? And where, in the name of his own endless foolishness, was Bear?

He wondered what the Rangers intended to do with his people once they had arrived wherever it was they were taking them, and his stomach twisted suddenly with a sickening fear. As he ran down the hill, to follow them as stealthily as he could, only one thought was in his mind. Please, if the gods are with me… please let me still be able to help them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Wolf had a moment to think over his actions as he stood, hidden and breathless, behind the sheltering wall of a house near the center of the settlement. He had attempted to be careful, but in his dazed state he was sure he could not have done well, and he wondered how they could possibly have been so careless as not to have seen him. He had followed them all the way across the hills, his apprehension growing with the certainty that the Rangers intended to bring their captives back to the settlement. He did not know what he would do when he arrived, but he could do nothing now, and there was none to help him. But he did not worry. His mind was a blank and his body merely followed what it knew: that he had to protect these people, somehow. Somehow. He couldn’t lose them.

He supposed he must have hidden and waited for the inevitable commotion surrounding the arrival of the Rangers to die down before entering the city, but he could not remember at all clearly. He only remembered how quiet the city had been as he skulked along under the overhangs and in the shadows when he could almost as easily have sauntered down the middle of those strange, wide streets. He remembered how he had chosen to hide behind a house that faced the square, where he could hear the voices of a gathering crowd. Nobody was out in the city. They were all here, assembled without him to decide the fate of his people.

The initial shock had never left him, and so he never noticed the rage he ought to have felt, any more than the alarm that would have been appropriate earlier. He was simply waiting and listening. Waiting and listening.

Let them think and speak for now; Wolf intended to act.

__________________________________________________ ______________

THEXPHIAL'S POST


Borgand stood before the assembled men and pondered what to do with the mess that lay before him. He was atop what remained of the stone steps to the community hall looking into the cleared square, now teeming with people. In the middle stood the captured hillmen, men women and children. He saw among them some of the soldiers who had looted and burned his new home and the intense spark of hatred that boiled within him at the sight was quelled only by the fact that they stood there surrounded by their wives, children and parents. It was hard to hate a man standing with his family. The children, especially, were heartbreaking. Small and dark like their parents, he could see that hunger had carved their faces and bodies. Even the youngest lacked the excess fat he had seen in his own child, and he wondered how often they actually got to eat their fill.

Surrounding the prisoners were the rangers. These men..and woman...were guarding the hillmen, but Borgand wasn't sure if they were guarding them from running or from being lynched by the men of the settlement. Outside the ring of rangers stood Borgand's own people, tired, angry, and mourning the ruin of their hope. The muttering hadn't ceased, and more than one looked to him hoping their hot fury would be met with vengeance at his hands. Standing apart from the rest were the dwarves, trying their best to look uninterested but clearly waiting, as the others were, for his judgement.

The hillmen didn't seem to expect mercy from him. They were a realistic lot, and even the children looked at him with resigned, despising eyes. The only person who seemed to be regarding him with some measure of hope was the woman Kestrel. She had arrived before the others, surrendering herself and her children to him of her own will. He had spoken to her briefly, and come away with the impression that she would do anything to save her children, a trait he admired. The fact remained, however, than anything could also include selling out the settlement to the hillmen in exchange for the lives of her family. He hadn't decided what to do with her when the rangers returned with the others. She stood next to the hillmen now, but wasn't part of their group. They seemed not to know what to make of her sudden appearance.

Borgand cleared his throat.

"Last night was a night of bloodshed and fire. This settlement lost much in lives and in work. Our enemies also lost much. Those who stand before us here today are all that remain of our attackers"

The answering angry shouts were cut short by a hand movement from the grim-looking leader of the settlement. He continued.

"I want to hear, and I want these people to hear, from those who lost a family member to this attack. If your son or brother was lost last night, come forward and be heard. Let's know exactly why we are here."

One by one, men came forward and told of their lost sons and brothers. One young man, barely 12, spoke of his father who had died in one of the fires. Borgand listened to each and watched the hillmen as the tales were told. The eyes of many were glazed in a sort of defiant inattention, but others were listening. One woman had tears on her cheeks, perhaps thinking of her own son or husband now dead in the senseless battle. The woman Kestrel was clutching her children to her ever more tightly.

Borgand needed to hear these stories. Ever since his interaction with Kestrel, he had been struggling with his heart, and he hoped that hearing about the dead would steel him for action against his enemies. His eyes, however, kept returning to the crying woman and against his will he remembered his earlier interaction with the leader of the dwarves.

~~~~~~~~~

Barzûn had come to him carrying a pair of carvings in stone. He had shoved the stones into Borgand's hands and gruffly muttered, "Look here, human."

Borgand had puzzled over the stones a bit before looking at Barzûn blankly.

"I see carvings. What does it mean?"

The dwarf had sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look you, this was done by your ancestors." He indicated the smoother and larger carving. "This other one was done by someone since then, and as far as I know, it's just been those hillmen living here."

Borgand had looked at the crude cuttings, how they obviously mimicked the older art and when he raised his eyes to question the dwarf again, he found that Barzûn had already left, allowing him time to drawn his own conclusions.

~~~~~~~~~

The last of the men finished his story and stepped back into the crowd, but Borgand felt no more decided than he had before the tales. He sighed to himself. Originally, he had planned to order these people off the land, but he knew now that this would be a death sentence. They had been living in these woods, had made their own mark on the land. He thought about the carvings and shook his head to clear it. Finally, he spoke.

"My friends. Your words have moved me, and it is not in a way that I expected. You all loved your lost relatives. I, too, have lost much. The answer is not in vengeance, however." He waited for the murmer to die down and turned to the hillmen.

"It's been brought to my attention that we are not so different. It's possible that we can live in peace, together on this land. But a betrayal like last night cannot be lightly set aside. I will give you a choice. Those who wish to may live with us here, in the settlement. As for the rest, you must agree never to attack us again, or you will be driven mercilessly from these hills. The choice is yours."

Borgand closed his eyes as settler and hillman alike erupted into vocal protests. No one was happy...this must be the right decision, at last.