Mud and Magic Ch. 01-03

He nodded sternly. "I will. Once I come back, Carver's days will be numbered. Oh naked lady of my heart."

"Great," she snorted. "I hope you left me some water."

* * * *

Down in the taproom, Daffyd was already busy pulling stools off tables. Behind the old bar, seemingly hewn from a massive block of elderwood, a fire burned in the hearth. A second, much larger fire had been kindled in the fireplace where Daffyd and Dara used to roast whole oxen when there were some to spare. Now it was more a source of light and heat. The big bearded man looked up when Rhys came down the stairs.

"Mornin'. Never thought to see you crawl down here."

"I'm not sure if you're complimenting or insulting me," Rhys said.

"Jus' color me surprised is all," Daffyd rumbled. "I always thought you're too chicken to try anything with Dara, even when she practically slapped ye with her tits last winter."

"We danced," Rhys corrected him, taking a seat at the bar. "I just had a bit too much mead."

"And nearly drowned in her blouse." Daffyd plonked down the last two stools and joined him at the counter. He glanced Rhys up and down, lingering on the boot dagger. "Ye look like a proper rascal now, swagger and all."

"Dara said 'thank you' for the Moonshine."

"I bet," Daffyd said, guffawing. He made a lewd gesture. "What'll it be?"

"A trader's breakfast with everything," Dara said behind them. She looked especially radiant in the yellow dress she wore this morning. "He's way too spindly all over." Humming, she hugged Rhys from behind, smooched a kiss onto his cheek and slid past him, behind the counter. She snatched an apron off a peg and put it on.

"Someone looks happy," Daffyd noted. "Tea? Or something heartier?"

"Tea would be fine, thanks."

Next to her brother, Dara went to work, preparing a large iron pan. Even before his tea had fully steeped, he looked at a plate heaped high with fried taters, scrambled egg, onion and bacon, along with two slices of bread and cheese. Dara made a little curtsey as she served the plate, almost exposing her nethers again. "Your breakfast, my knight."

"Thank you, oh apple of my eye," Rhys replied, trying to keep a straight face. He picked up a fork and dug in. "Although I'm not sure if I'll be able to fit this all into me. That's enough for a whole patrol!"

The door to the taproom opened. Cold and wet air rushed in, followed by a trio of black-cloaked riders. They wore boxy quivers over their shoulders and had short recurve bows clipped next to them.

"Breakfast for three, a pitcher of ale, good stuff mind ya, and enough bread to go around," the leader snarled without even bothering to look at the three people at the bar. He and his companions settled around a table near the large fireplace. Their cloaks were mud-spattered, their boots crusted over and their long faces showed an unhealthy combination of irritation and fatigue. They huddled together, murmuring.

Dara pulled a pitcher from a shelf and quietly left for the cellar, to draw fresh ale while Daffyd went to work, chopping onions and potatoes. "I hope ye brought some coin this time," he said, loud enough to cut into the black riders' mutterings.

One of them grunted then stood up and crossed the taproom, his spurs clinking ominously as he walked. He leaned across the counter next to Rhys. The man reeked of sweat and horse and metal, his body under the cloak was clad in chain armor. With a barely noticeable flick of the wrist, he produced a dagger and stuck it effortlessly into the thick counter top.

"The land outside of Lord Carver's control is dangerous. On our way here, we had to kill a band of elven spies who tried to ambush us. We also set fire to an orc encampment less than twelve miles from here. If we hadn't done so, they might have snuck into this peaceful little village and killed the men and raped the women and children."

Rhys stopped chewing, his gaze lingering on the black one's back. Daffyd shook his head 'hell no.'

"Anyway," the man went on, "what I'm trying to say here is, we're diligently doing our public duty. We make sure you farmers and innkeeps can live peaceful lives, without having to worry about all the nasties which thirst for your blood and soft tissue. So offering us food and drink and maybe a bit of entertainment isn't that much to ask now, is it?"

Daffyd leaned in, his shoulders almost twice the width of the black rider's. "Funny though. Ever since Carver took over, barely anyone comes through here anymore. Somehow, most traders and travelers give this place a pretty wide berth. Can ye tell me why, good ser? And, ye see, without paying customers, we don't have the money to buy food, since somehow since Lord Carver took over, the farmers have barely anything left to sell and I need to make monthly trips to Lordehome and hope there's something left at the market I can afford. Ye see me problem? No coins, no food. No food, no customers. No coins. Get me?" He returned to the pan and tossed the ingredients in.

In the corner, another rider laughed. "I think he got you beat, Tark. Pay the man already. The elves had enough silver to spare." More laughter.

Dara returned and plonked the pitcher onto the counter. "The good stuff. Enjoy yerselves."

To Rhys her face clearly said 'choke on it, ye fools,' but he kept his head down. The last thing he needed right now was a spat with Carver's goons. His platter was empty and he longed to say good-bye to Dara but it was obvious she wouldn't be able to slip away anytime soon, not with the riders calling for more spices and other, petty demands.

Next they want her to drop her skirts and dance on the tables, Rhys thought darkly. He rose and crossed the taproom.

Dara bumped into him on her way to the bar. "Good-" Rhys began. Dara simply hugged him and pressed a kiss to his lips, accompanied by the cat calls of the riders.

"Take care and until next time," she said, loud enough for all to hear. She opened the front door and ushered him out.

Outside, the weather was dreadful. Thick clouds hung low enough that it seemed to Rhys he could pluck one out of the sky if he stretched out his arm enough. A light drizzle pattered onto the leaves and his head. He pulled the hood of the cloak up and headed for the village green. For the shrine. The boots felt alien on his feet. He didn't have to limp and, despite their thin soles, his feet were not wet the moment he left the inn's yard.

The shrine came into view. Rhys weighed his options. He had said good-bye to Dara, kind of. He didn't have many things to his name except the new, unfamiliar clothes on his back. There was nothing left at Padec's farm to return to.

Except Gran.

Rhys cursed. He hadn't said a proper good-bye to Gran. After the scare she gave him last night, what would happen if he just left and she died? He could never forgive himself if that happened. Besides, it was still just around dawn. Celeste could wait an hour or so. He didn't intend to stay long. On his way to the farm, one of Carver's men, leading a second, riderless horse, passed him. He had to jump out of the way of the galloping horses to avoid the hooves on the narrow dirt path. His cloak caught most of the mud.

Two horses? The puzzle pieces settled. A black rider coming from Padec's farm could mean any number of things, most pretty grim. But he would only drag a second horse with him if-

Mirrin!

Rhys practically ran the last dozen or so yards. Padec was outside, his battered leather coat already soaked, wrestling the ox before the plough. Unless a natural disaster of cataclysmic proportions happened outside, Padec, despite all his flaws, tended to his farm with almost obsessive pedantry. Light rain, in his book, meant the perfect weather for a good ploughing.

He looked up from the harness he was struggling with and froze. It took him a few seconds to recognize the hooded stranger walking briskly across the yard.

"Rhys?" As certainty grew, his voice took on its customary, angry snarl. "Where have you been?"

"None of your business," Rhys snapped, breezing past the dumbfounded man. He pulled open the front door and entered the farmhouse. The chorus of three weeping women greeted him. Huddled together in their usual corner, his mother, Missy and Lissy, sobbed incoherently. He could hear an occasional "Oh Mirrin, my Mirrin." He let the door fall shut behind him. They looked up, surprise and confusion etched on their tired, wrung-out faces.

"Mirrin is back," Rhys said. "Where is she?"

Lissy pointed at Gran's door. Rhys made his way across the room. Behind him, the door flew open again.

"Now you just wait one bloody minute," Padec roared. "Where the fuck have you been last night?"

Rhys stopped, a foot on the stairs. He slowly exhaled then turned to face his father. "Your youngest daughter has just been dumped back into your lap after she has spent two nights in Carver's castle." His voice was a dangerous purr. Everyone in the room shrunk back from him, even Padec. "Instead of looking after her, to find out what Carver's men have done to her, all you think about is where I had been last night?"

"As long as you shit in my yard, you have to do what the fuck I say!" Padec screamed. "You can count yourself lucky I don't tan your hide for the shit you pulled last night with Gran!"

Rhys slowly exhaled. He balled his fists. The anger was back. Suddenly, all the joy, the respite Dara had afforded him, was gone. But this time, he would not be beaten senseless. This time he would not wake up with his back and butt ripped to shreds by Padec's old belt. He balled his fists and looked Padec right in the eye. Around the room, plates, forks, ladles, pots, glasses, vases and even the fabled elven-made beer pitcher began to rattle. Sparks of unbridled energy arced from item to item, over Lissy's unkempt hair, off a streak of tears on Mara's cheeks. The smell of an incoming thunderstorm filled the room.

Padec opened and closed his mouth, his face turned beet-red as he witnessed the chaos around him.

"You will never again raise your hand against me. Or anyone else in this family," Rhys said. In the rickety cupboard, a plate exploded, the bright tinkle an exclamation point to his words. "Now I will have a look at Mirrin, see if there's anything I can do for her. Something none of her so-called family seem to have any interest in. And when I'm done with that, I will leave."

"Ye bloody what?" Padec screeched, at the edge of hysteria.

Rhys ascended the stairs, slowly, step by measured step. He felt like his shoulders would buckle under an immense weight any moment but there was something else, the unbridled energy coursing through, around him.

"I will go away, father. As you can see, I seem to have inherited Auntie Ursa's witch blood. And you certainly don't want to suffer a witch under your roof, now do you, father? So I'll spare you all the heartache, the fear of being caught with a witch under your precious roof and go away."

"But-," Padec stammered. "Ye can't!"

At the top of the stairs, Rhys stopped and turned to face his father again. "I can't?"

"Damn fucking right ye are. Ye can't just up and leave!"

Rhys, hand on the knob to Gran's room, stopped and cocked his head. The turmoil around the room subsided. Almost in his usual, soft-spoken tone he said, "The way I see it, there is no place for me on this farm. I'm too scrawny. The only thing I'm good for is feeding the chickens, mucking the stable and being everyone's whipping boy."

"You should bloody well mind-" Padec began. A cup, left on the table after breakfast, detonated, sending clay shards everywhere. He swallowed the rest of his tirade.

"Mind my place, yes?" Rhys continued for him. "For the last eighteen years, you have treated me worse than the soil under your feet. And now when I finally understand who I am, you don't want me to leave? Forget it."

He pulled open the door. Padec screamed and hollered, even bounding up the stairs after him. Rhys stopped him with the door to his face, the sound of wood on wood ending the last hints of rattling crockery.

"Gran, I'm back," Rhys said, turning around. He froze. On Gran's rocking chair, protectively cupping her mound, sat Mirrin, rocking gently. Her eyes were open, but Rhys hardly recognized them. Gone was the luster in her eyes, those sparkling blues which had calmed him when the whole world was coming down on him. Her face was an expressionless mask, so similar to Mara's, Missy's and Lissy's.

He went to his knees in front of her and took her hand. She jerked it away and pulled up her knees.

"Mirrin... It's me, Rhys," he whispered. His heart broke. "What have they done to you?"

"What they do to most of the cute girls in the village," Gran rasped from the bed. She sat at the edge of her mattress. Around her on the floor, several pots and vials had been set, including the pain-numbing salve she had used on him. A ball of rags lay between her feet. Most of them were red and brown and horrible. Coughing, Gran slowly rose and made her way to Rhys, flopping down onto the floor.

"I told you to leave," she whispered. "Why did you come back, you foolish boy?"

"Gran, I... I couldn't just leave without saying good-bye. And now I am glad I did." The anger flared within him. Downstairs, something shattered, causing someone to scream. "Not like I needed another reason to long for Carver's undoing but this is the final straw." He looked at Mirrin. "He will pay for what he had done to her. And I want to make sure no one else has to suffer like she had."

"Revenge isn't the noblest of reasons but it will do," Gran said. "I see your night with Dara was well spent." She sniffled then dug around on the floor until her fingers found the loose floor board.

"Gran. Now is not the time."

"Shut up and help me instead," she said mildly, tugging at the board. "I will soon need more spirits to treat her wounds." With Rhys' help, she removed the floor board. A phial of strong-smelling schnapps came out. When he tried to replace the board, she stopped him and pulled up the book. "Take it."

"Why?"

She sighed. "Rhys. There is no one under this roof who could read it to me once you're gone. And I sure as all hell don't want my son-in-law to find and sell it for some of his stupid nonsense. One 'elven made' pitcher is damn well enough."

"Gran, I-"

"Now, don't go all soft on me. The book will remind you of the good moments under this roof. And it might serve you after all. If I remember right, the pictures are rather... instructional. Put that knowledge to good use."

Rhys shook his head and took the book. He again looked up at Mirrin but she simply sat there, whimpering softly.

"I will miss you two," Rhys said, hugging Gran. He reached out but Mirrin shied away from his hand, her eyes wide in terror.

"Go already," Gran quipped. "I'll look after the little one, for as long as it takes. Come back in one piece and make sure Carver pays for all of this."

"Oh, I will." Rhys muttered, clutching the book to his chest. He rose and turned to open the door.

A vicious jab of pain wracked his body. Not just a blinding headache like before. No, this time, it shot down his spine like an angry god's lightning bolt, turning his knees to jelly. Rhys crumpled against the door, an agonized moan tearing from his chest.

Kneeling in front of the door, his head against the rough, splintered wood, he tried to force air into his screaming lungs. Gran hobbled across the room and knelt down next to him. She produced a vial of her spirits, uncorked it with her teeth and forced Rhys to take a gulp. Suddenly, the pain wracking his body, his limbs, wasn't that bad compared to the ball of liquid fire exploding in his stomach. He coughed, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Better?" Gran asked, patting his back.

"No," he wheezed. "What is happening to me?"

"The witch blood must be taking its toll. On bad days, Ursa couldn't even get out of bed. It only got better when she stopped using it."

"You could have warned me," he groaned, pulling himself back to his feet.

"I'm an old woman. I forget things," she said brightly. "Now that you know, you will be more responsible using it."

"You have no idea how much it hurts," he grumbled, pulling Gran into one last hug. "Goodbye Gran. Mirrin."

Rhys reclaimed the book and opened the door. Whispers from below stopped as he came down the stairs and limped through the kitchen. He looked from one terrified face to the next. His mother, Mara. Utterly powerless, so unlike Gran. In all those years, she not once had raised her voice to protect him, never intervened when Padec tore into him. His sisters, Missy and Lissy. They were around the same age as Dara, but looked twice that, their large, fearful eyes devoid of any spark of life, their whole being bereft of any independent thought. And then there was Padec, his father, turning a large shard of pottery this way and that. Until now, Rhys had never noticed how small the old man looked, how tired, eaten alive by his own shortcomings.

And I was deathly afraid of him, all my life. But... why?

No one said a word. Not even as he opened the door and walked over the threshold.

Rhys trudged across the yard, each step less painful than the last. The rain had stopped and a few scattered rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, turning each puddle into a brilliant mirror. He turned onto the muddy trail leading back to the village and he did not look back.

II -- The Shrine

Utterly drained and light-headed, Rhys arrived at the House Of Mercy, the small stone shrine dedicated to the village's patron deity.

Calling it a "House" was a bit much. It was smaller than the barn back on Padec's farm, just big enough for the altar, the confessional and four pews. Large gatherings and ceremonies had to be held on the village green, with a small portable icon as replacement for the altar.

Rhys knocked at the door. During daytime, Celeste usually was in the chapel, ready to treat the wounded. With the sorry state of most of the village's tools, hardly a day went by without one unexpectedly breaking, hurting or killing some poor soul.

"Come!"

He pulled the door open, fighting the old wood. It squealed like a bunch of lost souls. Mother Celeste sat on the steps in front of the altar, the small circular window over the door bathing the icon of Mercy in a shaft of light. The Goddess was portrayed as a naked, winged beauty, her hair spun locks of gold, her wings shafts of pure radiance as she offered her garment to a pair of bloodied soldiers.

Next to her on the highest step, a small oil lantern provided enough illumination to read by. Celeste lowered the old tome she had been reading in.

"Hello Rhys, so nice of you to stop by," she said, rising. "You look different."

He chuckled weakly. It still hurt, if only a bit. "Well, probably like I've rolled around in the mud a few times." He took a few tentative steps and crumpled on the pew nearest the door.

Celeste joined him, brushing the hood of his head. "You're as pale as a ghost! What happened? Did Padec-?"

Rhys shook his head. Bad idea. A sudden bout of vertigo hit him and he sunk against Celeste. "I- I think I need to make a confession," he panted.

"What you need to do is tell me where it hurts so I can help you," Celeste countered. She rose and retrieved her healer's bag from behind the altar. The cleric resolutely sat down next to him again, taking his hands. "And you're ice-cold!"

"I can't. Need to make a confession first."

"Screw this," Celeste snapped. She dug around in her bag, pulled a small metal flask from it and uncorked it. Gently, she cupped Rhys' chin and applied pressure to his jaw. His mouth opened and she poured the flask's contents down his throat. A good slap on the back made sure he would swallow, not spit.