The Fires of Cerran

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Savagery is not something which comes inherently to those who have grown within houses of good standing. In fact, many in the South were of the opinion that it was in fact only a trait that came from those who had come from darker lands or townships, not that many dared to give names to such places. In the days before the rebellion, those who had prospered in the South often wondered what would become of the Western Kingdoms should they ever decide to actually come together and realise the potential that those lands gave to them. Fruitful harvests, good crop land and plentiful cattle plains had all been provided to them. And indeed, some of those who sat upon the greater areas of land often tried their luck with the local Low Lords in the hope of easier taxations. Some, those who sat in good stead with those same Lords and sheriffs, actually achieved such privileges. A few quiet drinks in a tavern one evening, followed by a miraculous chance meeting with the town sheriff, resulting in a long, firm handshake was all that was required.

But those days were long since gone. They were days that were remembered by few and spoken of by even fewer. Indeed, the South had suffered the most of all after the failed rebellion. The Sisters had come shortly after, from Korgen and Arisen, converging on those bloodstained lands with large caravans of medicines, ointments, and good prayers. Most were too worn to worry about which God they now prayed to, only that they be saved from the starvations and the diseases which were beginning to take hold. Dead carts came day after day, bringing home soldier after soldier and warrior after warrior, sometimes in the whole as well. Mothers, daughters, and wives sat on porches in tears, watching as their sons or brothers buried their men. Murdock, a small village less than seven miles from the Erengon, had lost all but six men to that terrible war. The men that remained, too old to fight and too weak to work, were left without choice but to beg for the assistance of the Crown. It did not come. Instead, a small procession of Sisters arrived with men in the golden armour of Arisen, and they buried the dead.

Baldric Falstaff recalled those days now, staring into the last dying embers of a fire he had spent three hours trying to light, and his anger for the Crown seemed renewed. He pulled himself to his feet, the aching in his back crushing his rib cage, and spat a glob of phlegm on the forest floor. He unwrapped his arm from its bindings and massaged the stump of flesh where his right hand once was. His bottom lip trembled still, sub-consciously of course. His matted hair, now trailing to the midpoint of his back, fell in ragged bands of unwashed waves. His beard was trimmed, he had always enjoyed a trimmed beard. Looking at the shattered mirror that was hung precautiously from a low hanging branch, he saw that otherwise his face still bore the scars of that ill-fated campaign. A long crescent shaped scar, running from his left ear down towards his lip was perhaps the least of the constant reminders his bruised and battered body liked to bestow unto him.

The party had rested in a small valley just East of the main road, it was densely protected by the firs and bushes of the surrounding forests. For the six of them, there had been plentiful food. The deer were slow and fat from the Winter, and the rabbits were always a good chase no matter where you found yourself. A rough stew had filled their stomachs that previous night, and now the pot bore nothing but bones and a small chunk of bread that someone had tossed in after the glorious feast was finished. With the merchant now sailing off into the distance, they began the morning by ransacking his cart for anything worthy of their plunder. A half a dozen barrels, empty. A large leather satchel, nothing but maps and papers. A few small pots, nothing but cheap Korgen copper.

'Waste o' time!' Bellowed one of the party as he chucked a small wooden fork into the bush behind him.

'Aye, caught him goin' the wrong blasted way!' Replied another, tapping a pot to see if it was genuine Serensean porcelain, it wasn't.