30: Who Has The Power?

They had all heard the story before, and it was getting tedious.

The vagrant who called himself The Wanderer had rushed into town several days previously and started telling a fantastical story about little people in the forest to everyone who would listen, and eventually even to those who didn’t. His story had engendered nothing but laughter and scorn.

Tamor was sitting at her usual seat in the tavern, nursing a cheap ale. Since the death of her husband she had taken to spending most of her time here, in her cups. At first she would tell her story but she too had ran out of people who were interested in listening. The tavernkeeper had kicked her out. After apologising and promising not to do it again, she was let back in.

She felt a bit sorry for this self-styled Wanderer. After all, she knew what it was like to have witnessed a strange and horrifyting thing and have no-one believe you.

“Hey,” she called. The Wanderer either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. “Hey!” she called again, louder. This time he looked up. He had been drinking as much as she had, by the look of it. “C’mere,” she said, waving him over.

Slowly he got to his feet. She could see eyes on him as he started towards her, then stopped and returned for his mug of ale, then continued to her table. There were a couple of soft and comparatively gentle jeers from a few of the patrons, but most had long since lost interest in either of them. He sat down heavily beside her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied.

“So,” she continued, “what’s your name?”

“They call me the...” he started. She shook her head and waved vaguely at him to stop.

“I didn’ ask you want they called you, I asked what your name was.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“No, my name is Torryn.”

“Torryn,” she repeated. He nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Tamor.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. It felt like her hand was being shaken by a dead fish.

“I wanted to let you know,” she continued, “that I believe you.”

His eyes widened. Then he smiled and shook his head.

“You’re just making fun of me,” he said.

“No, no.”

“You’re drunk and you’re making fun of me, just like all the others.”

“No, I’m not,” she slurred, and took another swig from her mug. “I mean yeah, I’m drunk, and so are you,” he nodded at this, “but I believe you.”

He looked relieved, and a little confused.

“That’s… why?” he asked.

“I’ve seen some things myself. My husband...” She broke off as there was a commotion across the room. One of the miller’s sons – she had forgotten his name – had broken into the tavern and was now babbling something about a stranger who had come into town and demanded loudly to see whoever was in charge.

“Roman has gone to get the burgomeister, but you’ve got to come see this,” he said, pointing outside. Most of the customers got up and followed him out. Tamor looked at Torryn and joined them.

It was late, and the night was cool and dark. The stranger was in the town square, accompanied by a small group of armoured men carrying torches, and swords. He was stocky, not tall, and he was wearing a dark cloak over mail. His hand rested on the handle of a large and heavy-looking spiked mace. As Tamor and Torryn arrived, he was speaking to the burgomeister Purull, who had refused to act on Tamor’s husband’s murder, insisting that Hellen had been killed by wild animals.

Purull had apparently just finished saying something pompous and indignant. The stranger replied.

“I think we both know who has the power here,” he said. His voice was low, but it carried to all the assembled villagers.

“I say, I...” Purull started, but the stranger interrupted.

“And it’s not you, is it?” he asked. Purull just stared at him, disbelief written across his face. “It’s me.”

The soldiers with torches seemed to loom, and Purull stumbled backwards, disbelief turning into fear on his face. The stranger stepped forward and handed the huge mace to one of the soldiers. He put one hand on Purull’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said, as he pulled Purull towards him. Purull stiffened. “Your time here is done.”

The stranger pushed Purull away, revealing his right hand grasping a dagger. Both hand and dagger were covered with Purull’s spurting blood.

Purull staggered, but was caught by two of the soldiers, who dragged him towards the well that formed the centrepiece of the square. Still alive, but with blood pouring from the wound in his chest, they hauled him over the lip and dropped him.

There was a ghastly silence for a moment, then a muffled splash as the dying man hit the water below.

The villagers, Tamor and Torryn among them, stared mutely at the well before a burst of light snapped their attention back to the stranger.

The stranger’s hair was afire.

“Hear me!” he bellowed, as he turned to the shuddering crowd. His voice filled every corner of the square. “I am Noron, and I’m in charge here now!”

One of the villagers screamed. Tamor wasn’t sure who it was – she was still very drunk – but she grabbed Torryn by the front of his shirt and pulled him into the deep shadow between the general store and the inn. From there she could see the stranger – Noron – directing his soldiers to spread through the village. As she watched, the tanner’s wife dropped to her knees in front of him, begging for mercy. Tamor turned away as Noron swung the massive mace, but she heard the sickening crunch as it impacted.

Torryn’s shirt still in hand, she fled, hoping that they wouldn’t be spotted by any of Noron’s soldiers.