Alaric

The wanderer pushed his way through the last of the rusted bracken, onto the tail-end of the path, folding his arms to warm his hands against the chill of the morning air. His breath froze in clouds before his face, and around him, the grey, dead forest was laden with icy webbing. He would be glad of company and shelter at last. It had been many days since he had last seen another human soul, and he felt the need for conversation, at least around him, if not with him.

Sniffing in the cold air, he made his way towards the little cluster of huts and pens. He could see no-one in the village, although he could make out the sounds of restless milk-beasts and dogs. It was long enough past dawn for such stillness to seem strange, with not even playing children in evidence.

His curiosity aroused, the man entered the shabby hamlet, and passed through its muddy tracks, to the centre, such as it was, defined by the communal well. A brave hen, loose from its pen, stared at him, expectant of feeding. He ignored it, and looked about him, listening, stretching out his senses. He shivered, and wrapped his travelling cloak closer round his body. Spotting a thin path leading off into another part of the forest, he made for it, treading softly, still listening.

Through the grey morning air, as he trod the first steps of the track, he was able to just make out voices drifting back to him from the far distance. There was something in the voices that made his skin prickle. After listening a moment more, he made a decision. Adjusting his broadsword to conceal it better within the folds of his cloak, he set off up the path, his grimy, worn boots treading carefully on the rutted, frozen track.

As he drew nearer to the voices, he heard one grow louder and more strident, taking over the others and hushing them into silence. At first, he could make out few of the words, but there was a certain tenor of declamatory speech-making audible to him. Passing the last of the trees, he saw what had to be most or all of the people of the village clustered around a richly robed man standing on a make-shift podium of a fallen tree. The whole group was on the edge of a reasonably sized pond or lake, its waters edged by thick reeds and muddy stones.

The robed man was the source of the strident tones, and was gesturing frequently toward a ragged bundle that lay near to the lake, beside a branch and some ropes. Beneath his robes, he was of stocky build, though with paunch swelling under his belt, and he wore his hair cropped short, maybe to divert from the thinning that came with the passing of years.

The wanderer slowed to a halt, hearing the words of the robed man. The fellow was exhorting the villagers to stay true to the Good Faith, as they had done today, and remain devoted Followers in all their daily acts.

One or two of the villagers spotted the newcomer, off to one side, and their curious stares attracted those of all their comrades. To their eyes, this tall stranger in the travel-stained garb of grey and brown seemed quite remarkable, and worthy of attention.

Neatly, the robed man wrapped up his speech, in order to turn his own attention to this new person without seeming to lose his central role in the situation.

"Hail and well-met, good fellow," He began, stepping down from the tree, "I am Devlin, priest of the Good Temple, here to aid these worthy people in keeping their homes pure and free from taint."

The lean traveller strode towards the group, throwing back his hood to reveal his starkly white-blond hair and smoothly shaven face.

"Greetings, Priest Devlin. I am Alaric, son of Rieg, and I am here by chance, on my travels through these forest-lands. I am pleased to meet-well with you, all."

"As are we all, too, my friend." Devlin declared

Alaric gazed around him at the villagers, who were looking at him with mixed feelings apparent on their faces.

"He's got a sword." said one man, swarthy-skinned and clad in simple, coarse woollens and hides, his eyes staring suspicion at the stranger.

Devlin turned to him, spying the tell-tale folds in the hang of Alaric's cloak.

"Indeed, sir, that would seem true. If I might inquire?"

"Indeed, of course you may." Alaric replied, opening his cloak to more fully reveal the sword beneath, "I was once by trade a soldier, and I carry this as my defence against those brigands who would try to take from me that little which I possess. I hid my sword so that I might not frighten or threaten anyone. As I said, I am but travelling through these lands, and have no desire to be set upon for a bandit."

This seemed to allay the fears of many of the villagers, although not quite all.

"Very well, Master Alaric is it? Let us return to the homes of these good folk, and break our fasts in comfort and warmth. What say you all?" Devlin raised his voice, more through showmanship than need.

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.

"Hold yet awhile, friends." Alaric called out over the voices of the villagers, "I would be pleased to partake of your hard-earned repasts, but I would not have it said that I took without giving. I would like to work for my share - is there some task with which I might aid you, before I eat and rest?"

The priest Devlin stepped to one side, and started for the village, saying:

"Well, I and many others have done a long nights work, so we shall meet you later."

As Alaric had hoped would happen, the remaining villagers, left to clear the pool-side, were quite happy to let him help them. As two of them began to dig, a short way into the forest, he set about untangling the ropes from the branch and the bundle, coiling them up and placing them to one side. Then he had an opportunity to look at the bundle, confirming his suspicions.

The bundle, while larger than it seemed at first, was still smaller than it might have been. That is, considering that it was once a middle-aged woman. As he worked his numbing fingers freeing the last few ropes from her body, he could tell from her features that her end had been as cruel as he could have expected. Her grey face was locked by her death mask and the frozen lake-water in perpetual despair, mixed with haggard torment. Her last moments had been ones filled with icy water, betrayal, and hopelessness.

Alaric pulled her soaked and iced-up garments loose from the iron-hard ground, as he carefully made ready to lift her shrunken form. The simple wool and linen clothing of just another village woman, the careworn lines on a face aged by hard work and disappointments. Silently, he seethed at the priest, and the gullible folk who had done his work for him, his anger fuelling the warmth of his own body. Once in his life, such a feeling in him would have led to the deaths of the two villagers with him, and quite likely all back at the muddy cluster of crude hovels. Today, however, he knew enough to stay his temper. He knew to hold his instincts in check, with a view to longer term revenge, and more focused delivery of it.

He took a moment to brush aside a few locks of ice-hard greying hair from the nameless woman's sad face, pressing them till they stayed where he placed them. Then, silently, he lifted her in his arms, and took her to the shallow grave the two men were digging. Laying her down close by, he took a shovel from one of them, and started to dig, vigour sparking in his limbs as he directed his ire into honest labour.

The man from whom he had taken the shovel looked in confused surprise at his friend, who shrugged in reply, indicating indifference to such cares, and returned to his digging.

Having ensured the woman a decently deep grave, Alaric returned to the hamlet, and partook of the vittles presented to him by one of the women-folk, but said little by way of light speech for some time. When he did, he managed to draw from one of the goodwives enough information to satisfy his needs, and took his leave for a short time.

A mile or two into the deeper forest, the remains of the woman's secluded home showed all the tell-tale sign of the previous night's work. Heavy foot-prints and random slashings had trampled and destroyed the once plentiful gardens that bounded the hut on three sides, and the door to the hut itself hung at an awkward angle from the rough hewn wall, and would fall the last of the way to the earthy floor before winter was done. Even the privy hut had been barged down by some zealous farmer.

Venturing into the desolated hut, he was presented with the sight and smell of the slaughtered dog, killed defending its mistress. The stench and aura of death pervaded the tiny hut, and thrust itself into Alaric's soul as he looked about.

Little now was left in the ruined hut that was not broken or spilled. Clay pots, wicker baskets, wooden furniture, all had been treated as if they were somehow incarnations of evil forces, and condemned to death along with their owner. In the centre of the hut, there lay the traces of a fire, once presumably her cooking fire, but now holding the remnants of anything that might conceivably have seemed arcane or demonic by the villagers or the priest - a corn dolly, a deer's foot luck charm, a silver pendant. All had been slung fearfully onto the petty fire to burn.

Outside, the forest was quiet and still, as if in mourning for one who had long dwelt in that place. The surrounding fabric of life lay muted, watchful, aware of the death of one of it's own and awaiting some further act to balance the scales. The afternoon sun, unsullied by clouds in the winter-blue sky, had warmed the woodland to the limits of its powers, and the afternoon's birds were lulled to somnolence by the unlooked-for mildness of the air. Some distance away, deep in a thicket of bare, whip thin branches, a large tabby cat sat, its eyes slitted, blinking slowly, gazing as if relaxed at the broken hut. The hunger in its belly, normally so immediately acted upon, now unimportant.

For over an hour, Alaric stayed in the shattered hut, standing motionless, his head bowed, wrapped in bitter contemplation, fully aware of the irony that, had she been truly of power, they and their pitchforks would not have touched her, nor indeed would she have been living among them at all in the first place. The petty ignorance and fears, played upon by the priest, and the sad, pointless results they left, gave Alaric hearts-sickness. Well, the dead woman may well not have possessed power with which to shield herself, true enough. But one who did have power was quite certainly going to do all he could to right the wrong of her murder, with all the wrath at his less than Faithful command.

Bending down quickly, he caught up the blackened pendant. It lay in his palm, tiny glints of silver peeking though the layer of soot glued to its surface. Under the soot, it was wrought in the shape of a slender flower, of a type unknown to the wanderer in grey, yet still of a gentle grace and beauty that he could not miss. Briefly, he rubbed at the pendant with his thumb, to remove some of the fire's grime, then thrust it into a pouch within the folds of his soft leather jerkin. Grim faced, he moved back out of the hut, into the bright, thin sunlight. The fresh air outside braced him, its coolness on his face enlivening him a little. As he started on his way back to the village, he stopped, turning to one side, his face unmoved. For some few heartbeats he looked into a brake of leafless, dense foliage. Then with a short, pinched smile, quickly vanishing, he resumed his way.

So, he thought, she was not wholly without gifts. A pity they were not enough.

Back at the village, Alaric was in time to attend a small communal supper, at which the priest Devlin was present. Opening up somewhat more than he had earlier in the day, Alaric managed to discover which direction Devlin would likely take out of the village when he left. It was also apparent that the priest intended to stay where he was for some days more, to "capitalise on the good works achieved here already", and to enjoy their devoted hospitality while he could.

The following morning, Alaric bade the folk of the little village goodbye, and set off into the forest. It was snowing gently as he was swallowed by the trees, and a few small children followed him a short way into the trees, until his stillness of demeanour bored them, and they returned to their friends. The snowfall lasted for the rest of the day, on and off, drifting quite high in the wilder parts of the forest, and Devlin found that his departure would have been delayed by the weather anyway. By the third day, a slight thaw gave him the chance to be gone from the village, which was rapidly losing its charms in the wintry atmosphere.

Leaving a fair way into the morning, he rode his pony off into the ice-rimed trees, heading for the distant King's Road. The villagers had been quite forthcoming with their provisions for the holy man, and his first night's rest on his way home was surprisingly comfortable. Cured pork, wine, and fresh bread, as well as a newly woven blanket, went a long way to giving him ease. The next morning, he rose early, and was on his way in short order.

It was the height of the afternoon when he espied a figure on the path ahead of him. The glare of the sun was shining off the crisp sheets of snow fit to blind a man, were it not for the presence of the trees and bushes of the winter forest.

The figure was standing still, as if waiting for him. Devlin glanced around, thinking of banditry, but the woodland here was thin and open, mainly tall, spare trees and spindly, leafless bushes that afforded no cover. Relaxing, Devlin decided that whoever it was had no compatriots, and was making no effort to hide himself, and thus was unlikely to be a robber. In fact, as he drew closer, the priest realised he knew the fellow. It was that traveller from the witch's hamlet, whom he was catching up on. The fellow must have wonderfully keen sight and hearing to have noticed him from so far away!

As he came up ‚with the grey clad wanderer, he called out a greeting.

"Well-met again, friend Alaric, and how are you this day?"

"I am quite well, holy man."

Devlin saw the expression on his face, and did not like it. A cold sweat started on the small of his back and on his brow. This was no chance meeting.

The wanderer threw back his hood, and Devlin was suddenly struck by the whiteness of the man's still perfectly clean-shaven face. He was still more affected by the look in the eyes that gazed upon him.

"We have business, holy man." Alaric said, stepping forward, and taking a hold of the pony's reins, before Devlin could think to stop him.

A sense of dread crept over Devlin, though he was faced only with a single man, and was not entirely unpracticed in the art of war.

"How so, friend?" he managed, his palms and face sweating now.

"I believe I owe you something."

Devlin was confused, momentarily off-balanced by the wording of the sentence.

"You seem not to know of what I speak." the wanderer said, "I speak of life-taking. I speak of a balance. Dues. A reckoning for which I feel I must take on the burden."

Devlin stared at the lean stranger, wide-eyed, realising what the man intended. What really scared him, though, was that the wanderer had made no move to draw his sword. His heart was thumping violently in his chest now. With a strangled roar, Devlin flung himself from his pony, reaching for Alaric's throat.

From a short distance away, the short scene was watched by calm, blinking eyes. Once it was over, and the outcome was assured, the watcher rose and padded off into the woods. Alaric smiled his brief smile again, and returned to his task.

The pony was found by one of the village's farmers a week later, pack intact, grazing in a quiet glade, three miles north of the King's Road. No sign of the Priest visible in any direction. It was over a month before a small group of villagers came upon the dangling remains swinging, creaking, from a tall branch. He had been tied by his ankles almost a hundred feet up with his arms strapped to his body, and a cloth rag bound round his mouth. The body bore no wounds, but had spent so long up-ended and tightly bound that eventually, the gathering of the blood to the head had reached its limit, and the man had died in a flow of blood from his ears, eyes, nose and mouth.