Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

“We couldn’t handle our land, not when we were down four sets of hands. It became a struggle, one that drained us. All the while our neighbours, who might have otherwise helped, had begun to shy away; the local priest had spread rumours about us.”

I asked, “What did he say?”

“He said my grandmother dabbled in the old ways, in green witchery. He even suggested that she’d ruled over our household and conducted rituals to win our family favour.”

Sef cursed; as Flets in Ossard we’d all seen the hard face of the Church.

Baruna said, “Some of our friends told us of his words – and others.”

“What others?” I asked.

“Our home had an unused wing that we’d walled off inside its wide and high roofed frame. It was huge, almost like a small noble’s house, and the most impressive building in the village. Some said the priest wanted it to use as a new home, and the vacant wing as a church.”

Marco said, “There was a time when I’d thought the men of Krienta were noble and just…”

Baruna snapped, but not at Marco, “Noble and just? Our priest stood as a dishonourable man. He managed to have three sons despite his vow of celibacy, all to a Flet woman who lived not as his wife, but as his slave. He offered us no help or comfort, just threats of damnation!” She stopped to calm herself.

“We relinquished some of our fields and sold some of our goats, yet we still struggled from chill dawn to cold mountain dusk.” She shook her head, her eyes glinting. Tears built there, getting ready to run.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “A season later, when we’d settled into a new routine, my younger brother also came down sick.”

Marco sighed, but he wasn’t alone.

I asked, “The same fever?”

“Yes.”

Sef shook his head.

“It got worse. My brother died not long after, leaving my father and myself behind. The morning after we buried him, my father awoke with a chill, and by sunset was burdened by the same fever.

“The priest offered no comfort, only more whispered words of dark curses and that he’d long suspected my grandmother of heresy.

“My father’s sickness progressed quickly. He was dying, taxed by trying to manage our farm and broken by grief. A few days before the end, the priest came into our home saying it was important for my father’s salvation that he be close.

“While he waited for my father to die, he counted our goats and checked over our fields. He made me cook for him, only to berate what I served and anything else I did. Finally, as my father lost his mind to the fever over one long, last night, the priest dared sit between him and me and slide his hand into my blouse. He told me he’d need to check me for corruption.” She looked to me, fierce in her anger. “I hated him!

“Father died to leave me in a home I couldn’t hope to hold. The priest never left, and his sons settled themselves in before my father was even buried. I awoke the next night to find his eldest on top of me, trying to get me with child. Through my struggles I landed a knee to his manhood, giving me a chance to flee, so I fetched my family’s hidden savings and took to the road.

“I had enough coin to get to the city and try and make my way, but it wasn’t easy. Once here, people saw me as young, unmarried, and without family, thinking me a thief, whore, or runaway. They never understood or believed what had happened, and never showed any interest in wanting to. So many years have passed since then that I’ve now spent as much time in Ossard as in the valleys, yet I’m still mostly alone.

“That’s the way things have gone, with me doing odd jobs to earn coin and get by. Until I saw you.” She looked to me. “Straight away I felt some kind of kinship, like you were alone too.” She fell into an embarrassed silence.

I stepped across to be beside her, putting a hand to her shoulder to offer what comfort I could. As my hand touched her, power began to flow. It passed from my soul, through my body, and into her own. The feeling made me giddy.

She smiled. A look of contentment came across her face, as if she’d slid into a warm and perfumed bath on the coldest of winter days.

I patted her shoulder again in wonder at what had just happened.

From Baruna came a feeling of thanks and trust. She had faith in me, in my care and compassion.

Marco and Sef both whispered their own thanks for sharing her tale.

She smiled anew, it something shy at first, but blooming with her natural beauty. I could also feel her spirit lighten, it euphoric with relief. Most of all she revelled in the knowledge that such lonely days were over.

I said, “Thanks, Baruna, the more we understand each other the better we can work together.” I turned to Marco. “And you, Marco, tell us how you came to be here?”

He looked about the room, his shoulders tensing as he gathered his thoughts. He began quietly, “I’ve lived all my life in Ossard, but also travelled much of the Northcountry as a child. My father was a merchant dealing in silks, cloth, and leathers, which he sold from the back of his cart. While he had some coin it was never enough to stop the valley rounds. He worked hard, but was always too ready to help a friend or do a special deal on a bolt for a needy widow or new bride. In the end, he was a generous man, but no Merchant Prince.” Marco looked to Baruna. “We went everywhere, so I imagine we passed through your valley and perhaps your village.”

Her eyes showed shadow as she remembered her home. “Minehead it is. A place that births such memories is never known by a good name.”

Sef laughed, a hard and rough sound. “You’re so right! Have you ever heard of ill tidings from Paradise? It’s always the gloom of fever in Minehead, the failing of the Second Dominion of Kalraith centred in Quersic Quor, or the fall of the city-state of Ossard – also known as the Whore.”

I gave a grim smile. “It’s true, isn’t it, there’s strength in names.”

Baruna added, “And power.”

I nodded. “Yes, but let’s get back to Marco, for we can’t let Baruna’s woe hang idle.“

He smiled, but it was weak.

“I’m sorry, I‘m not jesting at your expense, but so all of us can share our burdens.” I leaned forward to put a hand to his shoulder, and something passed from me to him. It was like when I’d touched Baruna.

What was happening here?

His smile filled out; he’d also felt it.

He looked up and nodded, yet waiting tears made his eyes sparkle. “Let me finish, for my story also holds something of use.”

We all nodded.

“We often travelled the length of the deep valleys, and as a young boy I used to love playing in the abandoned mining towns. I’ve seen many such places, most of them far inland and closer to the heart of the mountains. Those are of no help to us…”

I wondered at what he was saying, but then remembered Felmaradis’suggestion.

“…they’re all too cold in winter and far away. Without good preparation such a trek would be the death of us, still not all of the ruins are found in the interior’s high valleys. I can remember the roads we took and that some abandoned towns lay in the lowlands. There are four such ruins in the valleys to the north; three nestled amongst rolling hills, and the last a strange place half drowned on the coast.”

Sef asked, “Strange in what way?”

“The buildings, or what’s left of them; they’re solid and huge, and have room to shelter hundreds upon hundreds. The local shepherds keep clear of them because they believe that they’re haunted. My father wasn’t so cowed, instead he was fascinated – as were my brother and I.

“We’d camp there whenever our rounds took us near. Father thought that the ruin was old and crafted well before the silver rush and even the birth of this city. He was certain that it wasn’t worked by Heletian hands.”