Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

The center of the village clustered along the main road near a little river, a tributary of the Bernum. Wood, stone, and wattle-and-daub buildings with shake or grass-thatched roofs lined the road, beginning just past the wooden bridge and ending halfway up the hillside toward the manor house. Between them were a variety of shops. From several buildings smoke rose, the blackest of which came from the smithy. Their horses announced their arrival with a loud hollow clop clip clop as they crossed the bridge. Heads turned, each villager nudging the next, fingers pointing in their direction. Those they passed stopped what they were doing to follow, keeping a safe distance.

“Good afternoon,” Hadrian offered, but no one replied. No one smiled.

Some whispered in the shelter of doorways. Mothers pulled children inside and men picked up pitchforks or axes.

“This is where you grew up?” Arista whispered to Hadrian. “Somehow it seems more like how I would imagine Royce’s hometown to be.”

This brought a look from Royce.

“They don’t get too many travelers here,” Hadrian explained.

“I can see why.”

They passed the mill, where a great wooden wheel turned with the power of the river. The town also had a leatherworker’s shop, a candlemaker, a weaver, and even a shoemaker. They were halfway up the road when they reached the brewer.

A heavyset matron with gray hair and a hooked nose worked outside beside a boiling vat next to a stand of large wooden casks. She watched their slow approach, then walked to the middle of the road, wiping her hands on a soiled rag.

“That’ll be fer enough,” she told them with a heavy south-province accent.

She wore a stained apron tied around her shapeless dress and a kerchief tied over her head. Her feet were bare and her face was covered in dirt and sweat.

“Who are ya and what’s yer business here? And be quick afore the hue and cry is called and yer carried to the bailiff. We don’t stand fer troublemakers here.”

“Hue and cry?” Arista softly asked.

Hadrian looked over. “It’s an alarm that everyone in the village responds to. Not a pretty sight.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the woman. Then he slowly dismounted.

The woman took a step back and grabbed hold of a mallet used to tap the kegs. “I said I’d call the hue and cry and I meant it!”

Hadrian handed his reins to Royce and walked over to her. “If I remember correctly, you were the biggest troublemaker in the village, Armigil, and in close to twenty years, it doesn’t seem much has changed.”

The woman looked surprised, then suspicious. “Haddy?” she said in disbelief. “That can’t be, can it?”

Hadrian chuckled. “No one’s called me Haddy in years.”

“Dear Maribor, how you’ve grown, lad!” When the shock wore off, she set the mallet down and turned to the spectators now lining the road. “This here is Haddy Blackwater, the son of Danbury the smithy, come back home.”

“How are you, Armigil?” Hadrian said with a broad smile, stepping forward to greet her.

She replied by making a fist and punching him hard in the jaw. She had put all her weight into it, and winced, shaking her hand in pain. “Oww! Damned if ya haven’t got a hard bloody jaw!”

“Why did you hit me?” Hadrian held his chin, stunned.

“That’s fer running out on yer father and leaving him to die alone. I’ve been waiting to do that fer nearly twenty years.”

Hadrian licked blood from his lip and scowled.

“Oh, get over it, ya baby! An’ ya better keep yer eyes out fer more round here. Danbury was a damn fine man and ya broke his heart the day ya left.”

Hadrian continued to massage his jaw.

Armigil rolled her eyes. “Come here,” she ordered, and grabbed hold of his face. Hadrian flinched as she examined him. “Yer fine, for Maribor’s sake. Honestly, I thought yer father made ya tougher than that. If I had a sword in me hand, yer shoulders would have less of a burden to carry, and the wee ones would have a new ball to kick around, eh? Here, let me get ya a mug of ale. This batch came of age this morning. That’ll take the sting out of a warm welcome, it will.”

She walked to a large cask, filled a wooden cup with a dark amber draft, and handed it to him.

Hadrian looked at the drink dubiously. “How many times have you filtered this?”

“Three,” she said unconvincingly.

“Has His Lordship’s taster passed this?”

“Of course not, ya dern fool. I just told ya it got done fermenting this morning. Brewed it day afore yesterday, I did, a nice two days in the keg. Most of the sediment ought to have settled and it should have a nice kick by now.”

“Just don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“I ain’t selling it to ya, now am I? So drink it and shut up or I’ll hit ya again for being daft.”

“Haddy? Is it really you?” A thin man about Hadrian’s age approached. He had shoulder-length blond hair and a soft doughy face. He was dressed in a worn gray tunic and a faded green cowl, his feet wrapped in cloth up to his knees. A light brown dust covered him as if he had been burrowing through a sand hill.

“Dunstan?”

The man nodded and the two embraced, clapping each other on the shoulders. Wherever Hadrian patted Dunstan, a puff of brown powder arose, leaving the two in a little cloud.

“You used to live here?” a little girl from the gathering crowd asked, and Hadrian nodded. This touched off a wave of conversations among those gathering in the street. More people rushed over and Hadrian was enveloped in their midst. Eventually he was able to get a word in and motioned toward Royce and Arista.

“Everyone, this is my friend Mr. Everton and his wife, Erma.”

Arista and Royce exchanged glances.

“Vince, Erma, this is the village brew mistress, Armigil, and Dunstan here is the baker’s son.”

“Just the baker, Haddy. Dad’s been dead five years now.”

“Oh—sorry to hear that, Dun. I’ve nothing but fond memories of trying to steal bread from his ovens.”

Dunstan looked at Royce. “Haddy and I were best friends when he lived here—until he disappeared,” he said with a note of bitterness.

“Will I have to endure a swing from you too?” Hadrian feigned fear.

“You should, but I remember all too well the last time I fought you.”

Hadrian grinned wickedly as Dunstan scowled back.

“If my foot hadn’t slipped …” Dunstan began, and then the two broke into spontaneous laughter at a joke no one else appeared to understand.

“It’s good to have you back, Haddy,” he said sincerely. He watched Hadrian take a swallow of beer, and then to Armigil he said, “I don’t think it fair that Haddy gets a free pint and I don’t.”

“Let me give ya a bloody lip and ya can have one too.” She smiled at him.

“Break it up! Break it up!” bellowed a large muscular man making his way through the crowd. He had a bull neck, a full dark beard, and a balding head. “Back to work, all of ya!”

The crowd groaned in displeasure but quickly quieted down as two horsemen approached. They rode down the hill, coming from the manor at a trot.

“What’s going on here?” the lead rider asked, reining his horse. He was a middle-aged man with weary eyes and a strong chin. He dressed in light tailored linens common to a favored servant and on his chest was an embroidered crest of crossed daggers in gold threading.

“Strangers, sir,” the loud bull-necked man replied.