Author's Notes:
As usual, thanks to my lady love and a whole adventuring party's worth of beta readers, including ReGats, John988 and ChloeTzang. Your critique and inspiration not only made me rewrite this thing in its entirety but caused me to improve in the process. Thank you very much for that.
A special 'thank you' goes to my incredible editor bikoukumori, for working his ass off until the 11
th
hour. I couldn't have done this without you.
As usual, all participants in sexual acts are considered adults in their respective species.
Fair warning to those easily triggered by dark and horrific events -- this story is not for you. People get hurt, abused, raped, bullied and killed without much provocation.
* * * *
I: The Village
The huge bonfire bathed the village green in a demonic glare. In front of it, flanked by Carver's banners depicting the snarling goat's head over crossed axes, his herald waited. The tall, wizened man stood behind a low table roughly cobbled together from three barrels and some boards Dara had been forced to provide. To the side, where the horses and carts waited, Carver's men had erected some tents, their black pennants fluttering and cracking under the low-hanging, leaden clouds.
Moving around the green, like armored herding dogs, was a dozen black-and-bronze clad footmen, their serrated axes and spiked maces at the ready to punish and brutalize. They made sure the villagers stood, sorted by families, in a neat queue.
Rhys looked around, uneasy. Apart from the very young and very old, the whole populace of the village was present and the look of barely concealed terror was everywhere. Mirrin, his youngest sister, clutched his hand, her bright blue eyes darting this way and that, curiously taking in the armed men. She, along with the other younglings, seemed untouched by the cloud of gloom hanging over the village green. She had turned twelve yesterday and it was her first Tithing. Rhys dearly wished she would have stayed home with Gran like the previous years.
The Tithing, according to Gran's stories, once was cause for celebration, a revel when the lord came to visit. Bards would sing, there were games of skill and chance and even festive food like pies and honeycombs. But that was when Gran herself had been young. Ever since Rhys could remember Carver ruled over these lands and there was little in the way of merriment. Everyone had to work, blisteringly so, to pay the tithes Carver demanded. He took so much, on some days there wasn't enough food for everyone. His father Padec and his four older brothers would eat first, then his mother and two older sisters, then Mirrin and finally Rhys, strictly in order of usefulness. He couldn't do the hard farm work, he couldn't be married off like his beautiful sisters so he got the scraps.
"Stop gawping already and take this," his father snarled, slapping the leashes for the two calves into his hands. They were well fed and strong, in contrast to Rhys. He was a lanky, stick-thin young man. Pale skin, neck-length hair of indeterminate color and slender, almost girlish hands. In comparison to Delf, Rowlf, Ulf and Gorf, he seemed like an alien. They were as pale as he was but they boasted broad shoulders and a surprising amount of mass. But then they didn't become ill as often as he did. Gran and Ilva, the former village cleric, had tended to him. That somehow had soured his father on him and he only trusted Rhys to herd the chickens and muck out the stables. He spent most time with his old, feeble Gran, listening to her stories until his father would inevitably barge in, complain that Gran would put foolishness into Rhys' head and drag him off to another menial task none of his brothers bothered to do.
A soft nudge tore Rhys from his thoughts. Celeste, the current village cleric, smiled at him. Rhys cast down his eyes respectfully.
"Hello, Mother. How are you this fine day?"
Mirrin didn't bother with that much formality and hugged the cleric exuberantly. "Hey Aunt Celeste! Have you seen all the knights? I wonder if I can hold one of their swords!"
"Shh, just look, little minx." Celeste cast a gaze to the closest pack of three. They nudged each other and leered. "How are you, Rhys?" She was a tall, young woman, maybe twenty-five. Rhys tried not to stare as he raised his gaze. Under her simple white robes, the curves of her breasts beckoned. Her eyes, like those of a doe, suited her long, brunette mane perfectly. Her hair was kept away from her face by a simple leather band with a copper crest. The only thing flashy about her was the feathered holy symbol of Mercy, the village's patron deity. It was made from solid gold and caught the flickering light of the fire.
"I wish they would leave a little more food for everyone," Rhys muttered, so that only Mirrin and Celeste could hear over the booming voice of the herald enumerating Jesper Billings' tithe contribution. "Don't they realize they are slowly starving us to death? The harvest was bad enough this year and they are still taking three quarters of everything!"
Padec's hand scuffed the back of Rhys' head. "Shut up boy. That kind of talk only gets you hurt." Rhys recoiled from the barely controlled fury in his old man's eyes.
A few spots behind them, a heated argument erupted. A moment later, there was the wet, horrible sound of a mace hitting flesh. Celeste paled, squeezed Rhys' shoulder and darted away. He could hear her stern voice cut into the moans and laughter.
"That foolish gal will get herself killed sooner than later," Padec growled.
"She's the only one in this village to dare stand up to Carver's brutes," Rhys hissed back. "We all could use her as an example. Instead we grovel and-"
The fist came without warning. Padec had been called into Carver's pikemen regiment twice, the last time ten years ago, and ceaseless work on the farm meant that he still was as strong at fifty as some lesser men twenty years younger. Rhys folded double, clutching his stomach, retching. Padec grabbed his son's hair, cranked his head upwards and snarled, "If I hear any words from you until we are back home on the farm, I swear I'll grab an axe and kill you myself. Do you understand?"
Rhys could only grunt.
"Your foolish talk will get all of us killed. It's bad enough that Gran's sister Ursa got burned as a witch for hexing Carver's old herald. They have their eyes on us!"
Rhys coughed helplessly, clutching at his stomach. "By Desire's shrunken tits! Pull yourself together boy!" Padec hauled Rhys upright and shoved him. He stumbled past his snickering brothers. Mirrin shot him a look of sympathy.
There now was a commotion in front of them too. Rhys saw Old Man Harrol arguing with the herald. Carver's man wore a black robe with bronze seams and a wide collar, like some ceremonial armor adorning his chest. A long, tapering beard was tucked into his belt and several daggers and wands hung at his waist. They both pointed at two sacks on the table. The herald was nearing the end of his patience. He cut off Harrol's tirade with a harsh gesture then called for a footman. Harrol paled and stepped away from the table. Suddenly it was deathly quiet, save for the occasional cawing of a crow and the roar of the bonfire.
"We demanded only two sacks of grain from you this year, on account of your failing health. These are not sacks of grain," the herald proclaimed angrily. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slashed at the first sack. The seam opened, revealing a small trickle of grain.
"I told ye, I pay me dues!" Harrol protested.
"Do you think us fools?" the herald snarled. He dug his hand into the sack and yanked. A rush of stone fillings rattled onto the table. "The sacks were too heavy to begin with, the texture was all wrong and this proves beyond a doubt that you tried to weasel your way out of your duty to your rightful lord."
The footman stepped behind him. Harrol opened his mouth to protest. Instead of words, a horrible jet of blood erupted from his lips at the same time as a gleaming wedge of steel burst from his ribs. The footman grunted, placed his boot on Harrol's lower back and withdrew his sword. Gurgling helplessly, the old man sagged to the floor like a wet sack in a terrible, widening pool of blood. The footman changed the grip on his sword and rammed the blood-smeared blade into Harrol's eye, ending his feeble struggle.
Celeste knelt down next to the crumpled, discarded body. She fixed the herald with a grim stare.
"You know the rules, cleric," the herald boomed. "'Those who deceive His Lordship, betray His Lordship or work with the enemies of His Lordship shall not be left alive.'" He motioned for another guard. "Burn the wretch."
"You even deny him a proper burial?" Celeste rose, now openly challenging the robed man.
