“It meant that I was acting under an oath of vengeance,” Emlyn explains, “By ancient custom, no action I took would be subject to the King’s Justice. It also had the desired effect on those I captured. They knew, when they saw the stripes, that I knew what they’d done and were nearly pissing themselves with fear. That made their tongues a bit looser, but it didn’t change their fate. I sat at the crossroads at the appointed time, with my siblings in the trees watching to carry word to my family if things went badly. I had my captives thrown over their horses, bound and gagged.
Soon enough, both sides arrived and demanded to know the meaning of the meeting. One by one, I hauled my captives off their horses and forced them to confess to murdering The Schismatics under a parley truce. When the Faithful leaders tried to waffle, I rounded on them, demanding to know if they were now sanctioning the murder of our own. The ancient penalty for breaking a parley truce was death. They could either administer the punishment or admit that they’d approved this plan, in which case they’d be subject to the penalty as well as my oath of vengeance.
They hated me for that, for forcing them to dispense justice among their own, but when I threw off my hood and they could see the stripes on my face, they got still and quiet, like the mouse before the serpent. The mouse goes still because it hopes that the serpent will not see it if it does not move. What they do not realize is that the serpent can hear its heartbeat, sense the heat of its body, and smell its fear. They were waiting to see what I would do. The serpent merely shifts about a bit as it gets itself into position to strike. They were worried that I’d come for all of them, since they’d had a hand in what happened to Nia.”
“Did you?” Benger asks, enthralled by her story.
“I did, but not in the way that they thought,” Emlyn nods, “I was like the serpent, moving subtly, and aligning myself to strike with precision. I told them to take the dead home to their families for burial, but that was the extent of my mercy. Among my people, we do not usually bury oath breakers. They are left to rot in a field, so this was a considerable concession. Many of the Faithful saw it as such, and it softened their stance. The Schismatics saw it as a weakness until I washed the stripes from my face and ripped off my badge of neutrality.
That was when I offered to take Nia’s place among the Schismatics to continue her work – the work my sister had died for. The fighting among us needed to end. We should not be killing our brothers and sisters. We needed the priests to admit to the population what was happening so that they’d stop worshiping the mad god and weaken him. I was already Second Awst, and the Faithful feared me. They likely needed clean undergarments after my offer to the Schismatics, who had long pestered me to join them, knowing how I felt about our god gone mad.”
“Why did they fear you?” Benger asks, “And what is a Second Awst anyway?”
“Second Awst is the third highest ranking general,” Emlyn explains, “I could have been First Awst, but I cut a deal with the First Awst to name me as his successor when he retired the following year. I was already quietly taking over for Bedo. I liked Bedo and wasn’t about to take his pension from him. In exchange for his retirement, he tutored me and even shared some of the secrets of his family line, as he had no children of his own. As for why they feared me, unlike other members of our order, I commanded a large part of the King’s Army and so had resources outside my own family and Temple faction to draw on.
Had I wished it, I could have sent tens of thousands of troops against them. Looking back, I probably should have. I might even have been able to end the conflict in a day or two, but then we wouldn’t have become the Renunciates. I didn’t want to involve the King in an internal dispute in our Temple. It seemed like something that should remain among us and not involve outsiders. Yet, looking back now, outsiders were involved as soon as he started sending us out to kill.
We found out later that he had us killing anyone who had so much as a shred of magic in them. If I had deployed my troops to resolve our internal conflict, things might have turned out better, or perhaps not. I recently found out that he had us killing the magic-users so that he could consume their gift, and he was planning to consume all of us to increase his power. Using my troops might not have been beneficial. It most definitely would have involved the King and Royal Family much sooner. I hope that the rumors were true and that they managed to escape, so perhaps not using them was worth it, after all.”
“The Great War was centuries ago,” Benger frowns, “How is it that you’re… well, not a lot older?”
“Ask the mages,” Emlyn shrugs, “I have no idea how long Rigan held us captive or even where we were precisely. I’m told that he’d been resurrecting and killing us over and over, but I can’t seem to remember any of that. I don’t know how time shifts when you move between places. I know that Hedrek, the mage with the dream spell, mentioned that Penfro, the town near where I lived, was destroyed a hand of decades ago by his reckoning.
That seems to have been within living memory in what is now called Ibartica. I have no idea why that would be only a few decades there, and you say it’s been centuries here. I can only tell you to be grateful that you never saw any of it first-hand. Many of the gods suffered terribly, and the mortals even more than the gods. I think everyone was immensely relieved when it finally came to an end. The peace, as I understand it, is still relatively fragile. As for me, the events are all relatively recent. It seems like this time last year, we were all together, hiding in the woods and raiding supply caravans for food and weapons.”
“Gods above,” Benger sighs, “No wonder you’re so skittish about people knowing who you are. This explains a great deal, such as why Ember and Gethin are so tight-lipped about you. I’ve heard the priests spreading gossip that I know that they know isn’t true. Now all of it makes sense. No one wants anything from your past to come here looking for you.”
“I thought it best,” Emlyn nods, “to tell you before we get to your family home so that if anything happens and I bolt suddenly, you’ll understand why and not follow me.”
“Keep wearing your winter gear and keep your gloves on,” Benger advises, “and no one needs to be the wiser.”
“I know that Davilla is working on some salve that’s supposed to hide my tattoo,” Emlyn nods, “but until that’s perfected, I think the gloves are a wise precaution.”
“I can tell everyone that you don’t want anyone to see your hands just yet,” Benger nods, “They’ll assume that you’ve got some more healing to do and won’t push the issue too hard.”
“Where are we stopping for the night?” Emlyn asks.
“Are you tired already?” Benger replies.
“Getting there rather quickly,” Emlyn nods, “I’ve still got some more miles in me, but yesterday took more than I’d planned. It’s hard for me to tell, once the fighting starts and my blood is up. Sometimes, I don’t even know I’ve been hurt, even when I’m badly injured, until hours later.”
“If you think your mare and the packhorse can do it, I think we can reach the inn before sundown. That’s more or less the halfway point.” Benger nods and kicks his horse into a lazy canter, and Emlyn follows suit, tugging the packhorse into speeding up. Alternating their pace, they make good time, and the lowering sun sees them turning into the yard of The Haughty Oxen.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Perched at the crossroads where the cart-rutted road from the farmlands meets the beaten track of the trade route, The Haughty Oxen stands proud and stout like its namesake. The inn is a two-story timber-and-stone structure with a roof of deep red clay tiles, touched golden at the edges from years of sun. A wide wooden sign hangs above the door, swaying gently on an iron hook, etched with the painted image of two oxen in livery coats, snouts held high and eyes half-lidded with smug indifference.
Flowering window boxes, covered over now at midwinter, flank the front of the building while a low stone wall pens in a hitching yard where oxen, mules, and horses alike are tended with care. The scent of woodsmoke, yeast, and spilled ale clings warmly to the inn’s walls. Slipping the stable hand a few coins and grabbing their most sensitive packs, the boy agrees to bring the rest of the packs to their room and to help them repack in the morning. Emlyn waits for Benger to return before stepping inside.
Inside, the inn is low-beamed and welcoming, the taproom dominated by a wide hearth crackling with peat and pine logs. Long oak tables, scarred by decades of elbows and tankards, stretch across the main floor. The floor is made of flagstone, a bit uneven in places, but swept clean. Farmer’s tools lean in corners beside travel-stained satchels and cloaks, and the crowd is a merry mix: locals swapping news of the harvest, weary riders with dust at their cuffs, and a bard in the corner coaxing a gentle tune from a dulcimer.
The bar itself is a polished slab of slate-gray stone, behind which the innkeeper, Videric, stout and sharp-eyed, holds court with the ease of a seasoned negotiator and the memory of a ledger page. Shelves behind him are stocked with labeled stoneware jugs of spiced cider, small casks of plum brandy, and a suspiciously strong potato ale Videric has named “Ox’s Breath.”
Emlyn follows Benger, unsure as to how this will work. The tap room seems busy and full, mostly of farm folk, but there appear to be some armed ruffians off to one side near a side door that seems to lead out to the privy and the stables. Out of the corner of her eye, Emlyn sees them eying her and her swords. Emlyn makes a mental note to ask for a chamber pot so that she won’t have to go past the rough-looking men to relieve herself later. Benger arranges for two rooms and a bath for each of them.
Emlyn stows her packs out of sight and is arranging her things to be ready to hand when a knock sounds. It’s a girl telling her that her bath is prepared. Grabbing some clean underclothes, Emlyn heads quickly for the tub. Once the bolt on the door is drawn and latched, a chair gets wedged under the handle. Next, she strips down and eases into the hot water. A bit later, the sweat and grime from the fighting and the travel are gone. She dries off and dresses quickly.
She starts to stop at the wool, but decides that the gambeson, chaussures, and canvas pants are likely necessary, so she puts them back on, travel-stained as they are.
Now fully dressed and armed, she goes to open the door and catches one of the rough-looking men from downstairs trying to work the lock from outside. Thinking quickly, she grabs him and throws him into the tub of water. As he starts extracting himself from her erstwhile bath, he finds a boot firmly planted on his shoulder and a foot of steel hovering just below his waistline.
“Easy now,” he grins, “I should have known that if Dranor, Jessop, and Dru were all half gone over the same girl, there was more to her than lacy fans and fancy skirts. I wasn’t going to hurt you, just leave you a message from Jessop.”
“And watch me bathing in the bargain,” Emlyn growls, eyes narrowed, “You’re lucky all of my brothers aren’t here. You might be missing quite a few bits by morning.”
“You’re pretty enough that I wouldn’t mind seeing you bathing,” he grins, “in the line of duty, and my mates downstairs might have a few things to say about your brothers snipping any of my bits.”
Snorting in derision, Emlyn leans in, and the point of the knife digs into his leather armor, making it clear that his armor does not impede her steel.
Her voice goes to an icy cold, “Your mates, as you call them, stand roughly the same chance as a hog’s fart in a hurricane. Just so that you’re clear on my meaning, I’ve done for many more and far worse than that lot just yesterday, as a point of fact. I do believe that some members of my order are still there, mopping up. You’re welcome to swing by there on your way back to Harito and count the graves. Now, while I have your insectile attention, I would suggest that if you actually have a message, you hand it over and then don’t so much as twitch while I read it and decide if it really is from one of my friends.”
Moving carefully, he hands over the message in its sealed pouch.
“What happens if you decide it's not from one of them?” he asks cautiously,
“I’ve spent enough time on a farm to know how to geld a calf or colt. I doubt you’d be too much different,” Emlyn replies, managing to keep the razor-sharp stiletto between them while using her teeth to open the outer envelope.
“I don’t think I like that option,” he grimaces, “What’s the other option?”
“I decide that it is from them and leave you here with a bar of soap and the use of my bath water since you already smell better,” Emlyn replies with a brief glare.
“That’s an option I can live with,” he grins and makes a show of lounging in the tub. “The letter really is from Jessop. He said I was to tell you that he’d heard a new bit of gossip and that he’s sending the invitation to the ball as promised.”
Looking up from the note, Emlyn frowns at him for a long moment.
“Don’t keep me waiting, lass,” the man grins, “Give me your decision. Do I get to keep my manly bits, or shall I start shopping for skirts?”
“You can keep them,” Emlyn growls, “for now. But so help me if you ever pull a stunt like this again…. Do you know just how lucky you are? I almost stabbed you in the neck, but decided to question you instead. One quick jab and you’d have been bleeding out in my bathwater.”
“Bit jumpy,” the man frowns at her, “aren’t you? To go around hog-sticking people for no reason.”
“I’ve reason enough,” she frowns back, “You and your mates might have been the few bandits that got away from me yesterday.”
“Just how many bandits were there?” the man asks. His flirtatious behavior is gone, replaced by a brisk, businesslike tone.
“I’m not quite sure,” Emlyn shrugs, “I was running out of arrows, so I killed their archer and took his quiver. I didn’t exactly have time to count them all. More than thirty and less than sixty.”
“How many got away?” he questions her.
“I’m not quite sure,” Emlyn shrugs again, “More than one, less than six. They were spread throughout the forest, and when they sensed that they were losing, rather badly, some of them started running away.”
“You mean that nasty lot between here and Harito? The ones that have that arse in the treetops,” he says, “And you thought the five of us….”
“Yes, you seem to fit the overall disreputable and smelly general description. There are fewer than six of you. And the operative word for their archer is had,” Emlyn corrects him. “We fought, and I launched him out of his treetop. We were quite high up at the time, and he hit quite a few things on his way down. He wasn’t moving when he hit the forest floor, so I didn’t waste an arrow on him, but yes, the same.”
“Well now,” the man grins, “in that case, it will be my honor to buy you a drink once I’m done with my bath.” Giving her a sly grin, he adds, “Unless, of course, you’d care to stay and help me with that.”
Feeling her ears go pink, Emlyn slams out of the room and leaves the man lounging in the tub laughing.
“Return my soap when you’re done, you jackass,” she calls back, which sends him into another gale of laughter.
Emlyn heads downstairs and seats herself primly across from Benger, who looks at her with a raised eyebrow. She shrugs and nods toward the ruffians at the side door, who are now missing one of their number.
Once the food arrives, she passes the note to Benger, who reads it and exhales, “So the rumors are true? We’re to be sent to try to parley with this thing.”
Emlyn nods, “Since so many lords have already been involved in it, I asked Jessop and Dru to see what they could find out, knowing that the lords would be more likely to talk to the duke’s sons about it than they would me.”
“That seems to have worked out well,” Benger nods, “They’ll have all known each other growing up, so I’m not surprised that all the sons talk to each other. Do you think Monkford is robbing himself? What’s the point of that?”
“He can plead poverty and hope that the duke gives him extra time to come up with the pay for the men he owes the duke,” Emlyn shrugs, “but it’s a dangerous game. He may have some investment that he’s hoping will pay off and cover it. If not, he’s likely to lose his title and his lands, if I understand how that works here. If he can’t provide the men he’s promised in return for his title and lands, they can be stripped and given to someone else who can manage them better. I’m told that the duke’s younger sons are high on that list.”
“Desperate men do desperate things,” Benger nods, “That makes this whole thing more complex and more dangerous for all of us.”
Tell me about your last vacation. Where did you go? Let me know in the comments.