The Red Tax
Aranthir II
Night always came unwelcome in the villages near Greykeep. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the villagers ran to their homes and shut the doors. To anyone still in the streets, the sounds of bars dropping into place and shutters slamming would have been a strong warning to follow the lead of the others. So went the end of the day in every village in the fief.
In the village of Honeyfield, astride the main road through the fief, the owners of the Scarlet Swan Inn took their time as the sun dropped lower. Lying within sight of Castle Greykeep and its bald hilltop, Honeyfield was fortunate enough to still see travellers on occasion, such that its inn remained in operation.
The innkeeper swept the threshold clean and looked east towards the castle. Its tall walls were dark against the reddening sky. No lights shone within its halls. The castle's keep jutted nearly twice as high as its curtain wall, rising like a grasping hand into the sky. Narrow finger-towers stretched even higher, now acting as perches for birds and bats that braved their eaves.
Eander put away his broom and went inside his inn. In the empty common room, his wife Margan was polishing the pewterware while their son Torl tended to the fire. Calmly, he joined her at the counter in the polishing. The evening grew darker, the last rays of the run faded over the horizon, the white-walled houses and slate rooves of the village were plunged into night. Eander lit a lamp on the counter to aid in his work.
Somewhere, far beyond the bounds of their little village, a wolf howled. The family worked steadily, trying to busy themselves with something to take their minds off their dying inn and cursed village. It had been a fortnight or more since they had welcomed a guest and, even though spring had arrived at long last, they could scarcely expect more anytime soon.
Suddenly, they heard outside a terrible clattering. Eander sprang up and ran to the window. Peering through the shutters, he looked out into the darkened street. Few in the town dared to burn lamps in the night, though more in Honeyfield than the other villages. For a few terrible moments, there was nothing to be seen outside, nothing to explain the clattering that grew steadily louder.
At last, the source of the noise became visible, and the innkeeper's breath froze in his lungs. It was a great red carriage, lacquered in the color of blood and drawn by four great stallions, white as death itself. Its iron-shod wheels rattled along the village's cobbled streets as it bore down them towards the inn. The innkeeper felt a touch on his arm and saw that his wife and son had joined him at the window, all three sharing the same expression of dread.
The coach rattled its way down the street until it came to an abrupt halt outside, beneath the sign of the Scarlet Swan. The coachman was a small, hunched figure, dressed in a long black cloak and a hat pulled low. He kept his gaze forward, never turning it to look at the buildings to his side.
The coach door swung open and out stepped a man, tall and pale. He was clothed in rich black velvet, with a white kerchief at his throat, and wore a short cape over his left shoulder and a broad-brimmed hat over his head. Brandishing an ivory walking stick, he strode confidently to the Scarlet Swan's front door and rapped the stick on it.
Eander and his family froze in terror. None of them moved, clinging to each other at the window. After a long silence, the man at the door spoke.
"Hello in there, Master Innkeeper. Might I enter your establishment this night? I have come to discuss your tax."
The innkeeper stood as still as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. He could not distinguish its panicked pulse from those of Margan and Torl who clung together with him in fear. A long, terrified silence passed between them.
"I know you are in there," the visitor said, this time in a quiet voice that nevertheless slithered its way through the walls and windows and into the ears of the innkeep's family. "I can smell you," the visitor hissed through perfect white teeth.
The innkeeper could bear no more. He disentangled himself from his family's clutches and went to the door, even as they clutched and grabbed and begged.
The door swung open, and the innkeeper bowed low in deference. "I am at your service my lord," he stammered as lowered his face to the floor."
Count Omarren Jannus var Imre, Count of Duairen and Bezzaim, Margrave of Stetslika and Baron of Imroth, strode into the Scarlet Swan, swinging his ivory walking stick in front of him. His pallid skin shone in the dim light of the inn's fireplace. The count swept the hat from his head and held it in front of him as he looked around. He looked from the ceiling's sturdy timbers to the polished hardwood of the floor. A pot of stew hung over the over flame in the fireplace.
"What a quaint little place," the count mused in a voice of slithering silk.
"As you say, my lord," the innkeeper replied, huddling together with his family.
"As I said," the count continued, sweeping off his black gloves, "I have come to discuss your tax. You, and this village as a whole, have slipped my mind these past some years. I realized only recently that it has been far too long since I called upon you to pay the Red Tax."
The innkeeper shuddered. He felt his Torl's grasp on his shoulder tighten. His knees grew weak. The count moved closer.
"My, my, my..." he whispered, taking Torl by the chin and raising his head to meet his gaze. "This must be your son. A strong and vigorous lad he is. So full of life." The count bared his teeth, flashing a pair of long, white fangs. His head lunged forward like a viper, and he sank his teeth into Torl's neck.
Eander and Margan screamed. Torl's eyes went wide with shock and his knees gave out. The count held him up, drinking greedily of the bloody wound. Count Omarren raised his head again, a frenzied look in his eyes. He licked the blood from around his mouth even as droplets fell onto the white kerchief at his throat.
"I will take your son as payment," the count declared.
"Please, milord, he is my only child. Take me instead! I beg you!" Eander and Margan fell to their knees and raised their hands in prayer. Count Omarren looked into their desperate eyes and scoffed.
"You? You are nothing. Old, worn-out, sour and nearly lifeless. You have nothing I want. This one, however," he stared into Torl's eyes. "This one will prove quite a feast." He lifted the shocked Torl to his feet and ushered him to the door even as the innkeeper and his wife crawled after him, pleading for their son's life. The count stuffed the lad into his carriage and laughed at them a final time.
"Tell your neighbors that I will forget this village no more. I will return next month to collect again. The Red Tax will be paid."
He climbed into the coach and shut the door. The coachman cracked his whip and the blood red carriage sped away, back up the bald hill and into Castle Greykeep.
A month's time later, outside the village, two men rode a horse-drawn cart beneath the leafy boughs of the springtime trees. Driving the cart was a man of about forty, his thick torso wrapped in an old gambeson. He slouched against the seat of the cart, reins and whip in hand as he lazily steered the cart down the road in the waning sunlight of the late afternoon. Chewing seeds in his mouth as they bounced along the dirt path, he occasionally leaned his head to spit the empty shells to the side of the road.
His companion in the cart sat facing the rear, for behind them in the road walked a naked girl. Her hands were bound at the wrists, attached to the cart by a rope. The man in the back watched her walk, his eyes lustily wandering up and down her pale, naked form. He also wore a gambeson and kept one hand on an arquebus while using the other to flick seeds at the poor girl who was his captive.
She was young and pretty, though stained by the dirt of the road. Her slender body was naked but for the cloth wrappings around her feet. Sunlight still streaming through the treetops played across her face, shining in her wide green eyes. Her red lips were pressed against each other in a display of defiance, even as one of her captors flicked empty seeds against her bare breasts. The markings of many earlier hits showed on her supple skin. The man in the back of the cart laughed as one seed struck her between the legs in her shaven sex, causing the girl to visibly wince and break her stride.
Presently, a rider appeared on the wooded path, moving in the opposite direction. He was tall and thin, covered by a gray cloak. His steed was black and of fine breeding, standing perhaps sixteen hands at the shoulder. From the saddle hung a longsword in its scabbard and two holstered wheellock pistols, as well as many full saddlebags.
The rider approached at a casual trot, his strange blue eyes hard and searching as they passed over the lazy men in the cart and the naked girl walking behind it. As he neared, he pulled his horse to a stop.
"Ho there," the rider demanded, "halt your cart, for I have a few questions." He swept his cloak from his head, exposing a head of short black hair and two pointed ears. The drover spat. The man in the back looked away from his naked captive for a moment and sneered.
"Move on, mongrel. I have no patience to waste on your kind." He looked back to the girl, but his companion halted the cart.
"Are you coming from Daum Albor, half-blood?" the broad-shouldered drover asked. "We were on our way there to seek employment in the Realmsguard."
The stranger nodded. "You would seem the type."
"Well, that's an encouragement. Is the king still hiring?"
"He is," the rider pointed to the girl, "Where did you find her?"
