Raiders' Scapegoat

A pall of smoke hung over the bare earth of the coastal village’s central square. The space was packed with many of the local folk, all bearing the signs of recent difficulty. Some were covered in the smoke of scorched thatch, others hurriedly dressed, or sporting the marks of recent injury.

Their harsh cries were directed at a slightly-built woman, held pinioned in their midst by two well-built apprentices.

“Witch” was their common cry, though others were more specific. “Traitor”, “whore of the spirits”, “raider-caller”. Each of their varied and significant hurts were levied on her.

At their fore stood the stocky, black-robed figure of a Lemuirean priest, his deep baritone voice lending a stirring rhythm to the villagers’ outrage.

“What say you, people of Whitehaven? Has not this apostate’s crimes been proven time and time again? Does not the Twelvefold Path demand we act to set her treacherous wrongs to right?”

The woman, her pale cheeks marked with the stains of dried tears, stared back at the glowering crowd, her harsh gaze neither seeking nor granting forgiveness for what was to come.

A wagon was driven forth and packed with dry wood, some of it harvested from the destroyed homes of the village outskirts. It made for a towering bier and the mob grew near-riotous at its arrival. As it finally trundled into place in the centre of the square, its iron-rimmed wheels ceased their cacophonous creaking and the crowd quieted their cries.

An anticipatory silence smothered the square.

In that silence, the distant sound of iron horseshoes impacting on packed earth penetrated the square for the first time. It was met with more curiosity than alarm. Coastal raiders made no great use of mounts or beasts of burden, as their feed and maintenance was too great a burden so far from the raiders’ rocky islands. The sound of the impending arrival of several horses hinted at the arrival of a Venirean Lord, and this suspicion was confirmed as a dozen horses cantered down the road and into the square.

The priest seemed uncertain in his welcome to the newcomers, so immersed had he been in a ritual of a different nature. “Welcome my lords,” he said, “you have arrived just in time to witness the execution of this apostate. Your presence assures we simple folk in these troubled times.”

While the priest had been speaking, the two lead riders had dismounted, but made no move to return his greeting. The first was elder, wore ornate heavy green armour, and wore a curved sword at his hip, marking him as a foreigner. He had the look of one of the many foreign mercenaries grown common further down the coast or inland in these harsh times. The man’s face was scarred from many battles and weathered by the elements, and he wore a thick grey beard that might have hinted at wisdom on another figure, but here instead added to his intimidating presence.

The second rider wore the ringmail armour common to many coastal lords and their senior retainers, covering him to elbow and mid-thigh with the protection provided by hundreds of riveted metal rings. The mail shirt was shorter and lighter than that favoured to the north in Lemuire, the home of the faith.

“I would have thought,” the lead rider’s tone directed his remark to his companion, though it was pitched to carry to the whole square, “that these humble folk would have had their fill of bloodshed.”

The response was immediate. Many of the village folk began to list their own losses and to agree that the bloodshed had indeed been great.

“Indeed great masters that is why we have gathered so closely on the heels of the heathens’ attack, for it is this foul viper who drew them to us, through her consultation with dark spirits and casting of foul auguries.” The villagers’ voices rose in loud agreement with their priest’s explanation, with some hands to the rear of the crowd brandishing unlit torches to liven the prospect of immediate recourse to that betrayal.

“We drove the raiders to the edge of Bracken Marsh, beyond which our horses could not pursue,” the young lord spoke, and though his voice was surprisingly young, it carried the clearly and with the practiced intonation of one used to addressing crowds. “One of their fallen carried a series of maps of the local coastline, possibly bought from coastal traders. Many sported trinkets to honour the Vrengr Gods, counted heathen on these shores. I saw no hint of witchcraft, no brimstone scent of conjured spirits as they fell beneath our charge. Alas, the greater part of their plunder escaped us, but we are able to return to you this small token.”

From behind the two lead riders, a retainer brought forth a large sack. Most of the riders wore a mix of simple rider’s leathers or chain, more in keeping with the young lord than the green-clad veteran. Their armament consisted of a mixture of axes, swords and short spears. Both the riders and their armaments bore the signs of recent battle.

The sack was thrown at the priests’ feet, landing with a resounding clang of metal. For a few moments it lay there, caught in the cloud of dust that had erupted at its landing. One of the villagers, a herdsman named Thoder, was the first to connect the riders’ words with the bundle and hurriedly pulled loose the rope tying it shut. The crowd began to shout and yell wild exclamations as several wrought bronze plates and a pair of silver candlesticks were brought forth. They were artifacts consecrated to the village’s Pathmeet, but looted two days prior in the bloody raid.

The priest was quiet, his face moving from slack-jawed shock to a reserved gratitude.

“My lords,” he exclaimed, seeking to regain control, “ truly it gladdens our hearts to know our precious treasures will not leave these shores to adorn the crude huts of idolatrous savages.” There was a rumble of agreement from the locals. “But you must know that the Count’s decree of adverse possession?”

A few of the young lord’s retainers stirred uneasily in their saddles at this remark, and the veteran threw them a stern-eyed look.

“The count has decreed,” the priest recounted regretfully, knowing his words would upset his own folk, “that any man who recovers the plunder of a Vrengr raider may stake a claim upon it.” At the priest’s accompanying gesture, several of the valuables reclaimed by the villagers were dropped back into their pile, though the candlesticks were not among them.

“’Tis true,” said the young lord, apparently unperturbed. “But then, it is also the Count’s decree that apostasy is no longer a punishable crime, and that witchcraft must stand proven in his lawful court before punishment be rendered.”

In response, the crowd began to grow disquieted, unsure how to respond to these words. Were the goods being returned? What had the witch’s punishment to do with their lost, now returned? Some remained enthused at the turn of events, others called out in angry voices to confirm the witch’s guilt.

Through it all the woman gave no rejoinder to the allegations and insults, staring stoically down the path from where the riders had come.

“Even if,” the priest began, reluctant to concede the point of law, “the count’s decree were to overturn five hundred years of Saintly custom, this one’s,” he gestured at the bound woman, “crimes are many and broad.”

“And unproven.”

“She has incited the raiders against us! What other explanation explains their sudden arrival?”

“The shores have been plagued by Vrengr raiders for decades, most of the coastal villages are as much of Vrengr blood as Venirean, and more of both than far Lemuire. To call their arrival sudden is centuries late.” This rejoinder came from the veteran in green, his voice gravelly and course.

“Indeed, but never here. The Saints saw fit to spare us, to safeguard this village from such depredations until two days ago. Upon our search of the witch’s lair, we found instruments that proved she had espelled the storm, and guided the raiders through it. She interfered with the divine will!”

At this the woman gave a derisive snort, spitting on the ground. One of the men holding the ropes that bound her yanked fiercely on them, causing her to crash to the ground with a startled cry.

“I would hear her words,” commanded the lord, “before you send her to the fire.”

“She is nought but smoke and silk, my lord, her words carry nothing but lies.”

“Nevertheless.” He had a simple gesture with his downturned palm, to indicate that his was his will to be done, not a matter to dispute.

The witch was hauled to her feet and brought before the two lead riders. No great change worked across her features as she came, no new hope kindled there. In her steel-eyed gaze it was clear that the young woman had moved through such emotions and beyond them.

“You killed them?” She asked, simply.

“Not all, but many. Their craft will be far higher in the water, despite their stolen treasures”, replied the young lord. “I am Barthan, sworn sword to Prince Illuvan of Dyre. Will you speak to us of these accusations?

The young woman exhaled sharply. “It’s my Grandmother’s fault. She had the absolute temerity to grow old and die.”

Lurking nearby the priest interjected, “It is probable that her grandmother was also an apostate and traitor, and induced this one into such unclean practices.”

“Enough, give us peace,” Barthan commanded, stilling the priest’s accusations. He turned back to the woman, still a young maid, with flowing dark hair and sharp features. “Say on then, how did your grandmother’s death lead to this?”

“Understand. My family has lived here for decades, my bloodline for centuries. Though we share no kinship with Lemuire, who ruled these lands until the Count took his seat in Twintides. So long as we paid our due, and kept the raiders from the shores, we were tolerated as a necessary evil, an ill-mannered hound to keep the wolves at bay.

“Lies! Such heresy would never find root in my Pathmeet,” shouted the priest.

“He said enough!” Barked the veteran, his hand resting menacingly on the hilt of his blade.

“So you say that you saved this village from raiders?” Asked Barthan.

She smirked. “My Grandmother was strong with the spirits. She could foul a course or current, call a squall or stoke a tempest. More than one galley lies at the bottom of Greyweather’s Bight thanks to her. No, I am here precisely because I am not her. I called a storm, and it arrived, but later and weak, vanishing long before the dawn. Such gentle folk as these have no use for a dog that cannot keep the wolves from the door, and so I am here,” she gestured to the ropes that kept her bound.

The young lord was silent for nearly a minute, flexing and unflexing his fingers in their well-made leather gloves as he mused over these words. Twice, the priest made to speak, only to be silenced by the veteran’s stare. The crowd and mounted retainers waited on the young man’s decision.

Finally, he released his reins and looked to the priest, his eyes baleful. “The treasures are yours, the girl comes with us.”

“That is not the count’s decree,” the priest responded stubbornly, though the villagers behind him seemed divided.

“Then travel to his keep at Twintides to inform him of the matter. You will find us at his court.” The young lord took up his reins and gestured for a spare horse to be brought forth. “My lady. May I have the honour of your name?”

“Rina,” she replied, her cold gaze thawing as she realized she would survive the day. “Thank you, my lord, for my life.”

The young lord coughed and made busy with his gear, unable to hide the blush that rose to the tips of his ears. Despite his poise, he remained a lad in his green years. “Our road is long and our hospitality worn thin,” he remarked to the veteran when finally recovered. “Come Darwerth, it is time to leave.”

The horsemen mounted, and the young witch found her seat atop her white palfrey. They left the village folk in the smoking ruin of their homes, bickering over the sack of trinkets.

The priest watched them go, his hands drawn into white-knuckled fists at his side.