Once Upon a Blade, page 19
As he walked his horse along the dirt road, he soon spotted a younger-looking boy with at least fifteen geese around him. He looked to be around twenty years of age, with eyes and hair dark as the night, in a loose, white linen shirt and a matching pair of pants. Lord Döbrögi had no real reason to suspect him of any sort of mischief, other than the odd feeling in his gut when he looked at the boy. He decided it was better to buy his geese and have him leave before he had a chance to wreak havoc—hell, he’d even ask for the price once they were close enough to talk. He could be generous to someone so young and, well, until proven otherwise, innocent.
“Whose are the geese, boy?” he asked, and the boy’s head snapped to him in an instant.
“Mine, sir, all twenty of ‘em,” came the dutiful reply, already mocking him. Sir? He was a lord, lord of everything this boy could see if he’d just bothered to look around, lord of the castle, lord of the vast forests all around, the lake, the sea, the most likely pathetic house he and his family lived in, held together by rope and luck.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded, wholly unsatisfied when the boy didn’t even seem fazed at all. “Do you know whose market you brought those geese to? Do you know whose land you stand on?”
“My sincerest apologies, m’lord,” the kid finally said, with not an ounce of regret in his voice. At least he didn’t need to be spoon-fed the exact name and title. “I’ve never seen you, it’s my first time visiting your wonderful market.”
“Stop with the antics, boy. Just tell me the price.”
His eyes lit up with excitement. “Three silver coins, m’lord, for all twenty.”
The lord huffed at the sheer audacity. Three silver coins for those geese? He was about to do the boy a favor. “I’ll give you half, and you get to be back home by dinner.”
“Three coins it is, m’lord,” he replied with a faux-serious look on his face, the mark of a boy who was having fun posing as a serious man. “Wouldn’t give it cheaper to the soul of my late father.”
“It can’t be helped, I suppose,” the Lord sneered, turning his horse around. “Three coins it is, then. Get the boy and bring him after me.”
The people around them seemed to finally take notice of the events. The Lord could see them pointing at the boy as he was seized, whispering to each other, and he would’ve lied if he’d said their visible amusement didn’t make him want to perform a bit more. Why not show all these peasants who he was and what the consequence of disobedience would be?
While his personal guards tied the boy’s hands and secured the other end of the rope to the saddle of the Lord’s horse, Döbrögi raised his leather purse, letting all the silver and golden coins rattle around inside. He picked out more than enough to cover the price of the geese, then nonchalantly threw all of it on the ground to scare the birds away.
The surrounding people immediately jumped on the opportunity; men and women rushed to get at least one of the coins, making all the geese scatter and run in every direction of the wind. The boy was even yelling something, cursing the money-hungry villagers for not catching his feathery fortune, unaware that the Lord would’ve ordered his men to turn each and every one of them into a feast for him anyway. But there wasn’t much time to cry over the birds as the horse began trotting up towards the castle, pulling the fool along.
Laughter and cheers followed the group as they made their way across the market, insults raining down upon the apparently not-that-innocent boy. Lazy, trickster and thief were just a few of the names that were thrown their way, and the Lord relished every second of it. He thought he was merely exercising his power over the less fortunate, making an example of someone new who hadn’t yet learned how things usually progressed. If he managed to catch a thief, however, then the reward would be even sweeter. He wasn’t about to become a lord of terror, but a hero to all of these empty-headed vessels of blind hate and mockery.
Upon arrival, he got off his horse and called for the commissioner, who hurriedly met him outside the castle gates. His decorative and expensive clothes, indicative of high status and respect, clashed severely with the way he carried himself in the presence of the Lord. His trembling couldn’t be hidden even by the thickest of fabrics, nor the way his voice shook as he asked what the matter was.
“Count for me, dear commissioner,” Döbrögi said cheerily, motioning towards where his men had already taken the boy’s shirt away, and one of them had even acquired a hazel cane to carry out the punishment. “You’re the man of justice here, after all.”
The commissioner straightened his back when he realized that the punishment wasn’t for him, rather the struggling young man not too far from where he stood. “Yes, my lord. How many should it be?”
“I say fifty, that ought to be enough to make him learn.”
And fifty it was. Lord Döbrögi laughed with every pained cry, reveling in the sight of the red welts scattered across the boy’s back. Lashes were delivered harsh and sharp, from just under his shoulder blades down to just above his knees. Every whistle of the cane was followed by the angry snap of wood on bare skin, an agonized cry and the commissioner’s count.
Before the Lord knew it, the number had reached fifty, and the boy was released from his restraints. The men threw his clothes on the floor in front of him, which he quickly pulled back over his head, wincing as the linen made contact with the fresh wounds. Crimson spots bloomed on the back of his shirt within moments, creating a pattern of suffering, complemented by the two clean streaks of dried tears cutting through the uniform dust coating on his face.
“I thank you for the payment, m’lord. With God’s help, I shall repay it three times over,” he said with his head held high, black eyes boring into the Lord’s own, who met this kind of empty arrogance with nothing but the stone-cold confidence of an established noble. What were the choked up words of a peasant boy against a castle and armed guards? “Write it on the gates, m’lord, so you won’t ever forget!”
He could barely finish the sentence before the Lord’s guards got a hold of him once more, punching and kicking him until he could barely crawl. Döbrögi watched the scene unfold from the comfort of his chair, a smug grin on his face as the thief still found the energy to look back and utter, “Three times over, m’lord,” prompting another round of laughter from everyone who heard.
Scene Two
It had been years since that frankly ridiculous encounter with the commoner boy. Lord Döbrögi had moved on long ago. He was much too preoccupied with the construction on his land and the improvements that were being made to his castle. Everything was going quite well, all to his liking, coming together as well as he’d imagined.
That was no coincidence, of course. He’d hired the best of the best, skilled workers who had studied in far away lands, only to then come back home and offer their services to the richest lords and ladies.
The Lord liked to watch the workers. He liked taking strolls around the property, seeing his place of residence be polished and upgraded. The walls were looking immaculate, and the wood they had gathered from his own forest looked like it was going to make the perfect roof. A worthy final touch, fit for a masterpiece.
But then he spotted another person walking along the cobblestone roads, touching the walls of his new home here and there with a pitying smile. He especially seemed to have a problem with the wood, the wood the Lord had been so immensely proud of! The wood from his own forest! He didn’t waste a moment going up to the man, his tone already accusatory.
“What might you want here at my home?” he asked in a rather hostile manner, prompting the visitor to bow his head a little with an apologetic smile on his face.
“Oh, nothing, absolutely nothing, my lord. I was merely taking a walk in the area, and I couldn’t help but notice this magnificent building. You see, it’s very clear to me that the stone-mason has done an impeccable job, but the roof, oh my … I wish I hadn’t seen the roof! I certainly hope you don’t plan on using that sort of wood to finish this majestic palace, my lord.”
The Lord scoffed, feeling conflicted about accepting the flattery. He felt insulted, of course, but the other half of him was quite intrigued by who this stranger might’ve been, someone brave enough to critique the work of the finest craftsmen. “This wood is directly from my own forest, where only the most beautiful trees grow.”
“Oh, certainly, they are beautiful … maybe for smaller houses, or a little cottage, but not for a castle like this, my lord. Has your lordship ever seen the work of the Italian masters? Oh, Italy is famous for the gorgeous roofing on top of its many palaces, and I have been lucky enough to see them firsthand! I have worked on the mansions of princes, and I can tell you, my lord, it is impossible to construct a proper roof from this wood. One that would fit the home of a lord like yourself.” The man looked at the pile again, condescension written all over his face. “But I’m not here to belittle anyone. I’m sure that the people who have been tasked with finishing your lordship’s castle are fine men of the trade. I shall get going right away, so I don’t disturb the work.”
Mansions of princes? Döbrögi imagined himself as a prince, in all the finest clothes, embroidered with golden thread, lounging about on a throne all day. Commanding armies of tens of thousands instead of the hundreds he had under his control. Yes, yes, he needed a home that would reflect those aspirations, that power, that luxury.
“Hold on, my friend,” he said before the stranger could turn on his heel and leave. “I haven’t made a deal with any one carpenter yet, you see.” He grinned wide, ushering the man towards the part of his home that wasn’t affected by the improvements, the one that was neat and tidy, ready to accept any guest. “So you’ve visited Italy, then? Please, do tell me about your experience, and the kind of expertise you’ve seen. Have you had lunch today? Perhaps we could talk over some fresh duck, caught by my hunters just this morning.”
“I don’t mean to offend, my lord, but I would loathe to accept your generous invitation knowing I can’t possibly offer my services to you. Your taste in the construction of such elaborate buildings is clearly refined, but I can’t live up to those expectations, nor my own tales of the Italian palaces with wood that is simply not suitable.”
“My friend, please, let me take you to the forest! You won’t find trees of better quality in the whole of the country, I can assure you. Surely, my servants must have chosen the wrong ones, is all.”
Soon enough, the Lord was leading the carpenter through the dense woods, bursting with pride and enthusiasm. The forest was vast, and his satisfaction only grew when the man finally seemed to recognise the magnificence of it. He’d picked out one tree after another, until all the workers they’d brought were busy, and it was just the two of them walking along the narrow path.
“I just wish I’d one more,” the man said wistfully, and Döbrögi was quick to respond with utmost confidence.
“If we walk a bit more, I’m sure you will find tens and hundreds to your liking.” He pointed to one that resembled previous picks, eager to seem knowledgeable. “How about that one, my friend?”
“A very good pick, my lord, if only a little thin for the purpose.” The man stopped to think for a moment, then took out a piece of braided rope from his pocket and walked over to the tree anyway. Döbrögi followed, interested to see what that tool might be for. “I’m looking to see whether your lordship could get his arms around this tree. If yes, then it is indeed too thin.”
Döbrögi didn’t need any more encouragement. Of course his pick was right, he had been walking with the carpenter in the forest for quite a while now, and saw all the trees he had marked good enough. How hard could it be to pick one out himself?
He pressed his chest against the trunk, reaching around and stretching his arms as far as they’d go. Even then, he couldn’t feel his fingers brush against each other in the slightest; what he did feel, however, was the bite of that braided rope around his wrists, tightening and securing him to the tree. He pulled against it in a panic, trying to free himself, but it was no use.
By the time he thought to cry out for help, cry for the servants they’d left far behind, the carpenter had already taken some moss and shoved it in his mouth as a makeshift gag. He tried to spit it out and get rid of the feeling of all the little bugs crawling around on his tongue, but the man kept getting moss by the handful, pushing so much inside him that he thought he’d be forced to swallow it entirely.
And then, when he was silenced and immobilized, only then did the man speak again, answering his muffled questions. “I have to confess, my lord, I’m no carpenter. I’m the mere peasant boy you stole from all those years ago.”
The Lord’s eyes widened in recognition, and he screamed profanities into his gag. The useless, the thief, the unruly, unkempt, mischievous boy from that day on the market. Now that he grinned at him like that again, he could tell, it was the very same cocky look from when he’d told him that he wouldn’t lower the price, no matter who asked. He tugged on his ropes again, part from fury, part from debilitating fear.
“You ordered me to be beaten, and you took the geese raised by my mother,” he went on, grabbing a branch and pulling it down to a level where he could easily cut it off. It was a thick branch, thicker than the hazel cane the Lord’s men had used on him. “I told you then, and I’m telling you now, my lord.” He walked back around the tree, leaving Döbrögi’s field of vision, and making the powerful Lord tremble in nervous anticipation. “I shall repay it three times over.”
Nothing could’ve ever prepared him for the torment that a single hit would already cause. The agony coursed through his body as if he’d been struck by lightning, and he bit down on the disgusting plants in his mouth to stifle a scream. The second hit was even worse, and the third unbearable, and yet they just kept coming, raining down on him like the most vicious storm, the sound of thunder echoing through the forest each time the branch came down.
The Lord had lost count long ago, dazed with pain and humiliation by the time the vengeful man finally stopped. His legs had given out, and he was half-kneeling with his head resting against the tree and arms stretched above his head. The trunk was thicker towards the roots, and the rope was tight around his wrists; when he allowed himself to slide down, his arms got caught, putting way too much pressure on his shoulders. Yet he just couldn’t muster up the strength to get back up, not after his attacker had removed his boots and delivered quite a few lashes upon the soles of his feet, taking advantage of his weakness.
He barely registered the feeling of hands in his pockets, removing some of the coins he’d brought along. Thief. Thief, he was nothing but a thief, a lowly, dirty—
“For the geese, my lord,” the man taunted, and Döbrögi couldn’t stop himself from flinching away.
Scene Three
Lord Döbrögi hadn’t been found for hours after the lashing. He tried to spit out the moss still in his mouth and call for help, but no one seemed to be around. And of course they weren’t, when that damn criminal made sure they’d be spread out in every corner of the forest except this one.
Bugs were crawling across his feet and back, lapping up the leftover blood. The branch had torn his skin open in several places, even under his shirt, and every creature on God’s green earth wanted a taste of the aftermath. The Lord didn’t have the energy to shake them off, instead forced to deal with the feeling of tens and hundreds of little feet pattering across his body.
The minutes ticked by, and the Lord’s thoughts slowly started to shift. At first, he was angry. How dare a man like that tie him to a tree and make a mockery of him? Once he got out of his bonds, he was going to go after him. He was going to send all his people to hunt him down like the geese he had been so protective of. But as the wounds continued aching and the silence of the forest engulfed him, he started to worry.
What if he wasn’t going to be freed? What if his people had already left, thinking he’d go back by himself? What if the commissioner saw this as the perfect opportunity to just leave him and settle into his life as the new lord of this land? Was he going to die of thirst and infection alone, in a dark corner of his own luscious forest?
Eventually, after what must have been hours, the Lord heard voices. Voices calling his name, calling for their lord, and he tried to answer, but all that came out of his dry throat and mouth still filled with moss was a weak grunt. Someone finally called for the commissioner, and soon after, he was surrounded by a small crowd.
At that moment, crushed under the weight of his own helpless body and the stares of his men, he wished he’d never been found.
His servants cut the rope and helped him get rid of anything green stuck to him, giving him robes to cover up his own expensive but torn ones, asking what had happened. The Lord could barely choke out the words, the story of that boy they’d beaten years ago, all while clutching the waterskin he’d been given like his life depended on it.
“We’ll catch him, my lord. We’ll send the men right now—”
“Don’t! Oh, don’t, just get me home! I’m dying, I can feel that I’m dying, I can barely move!” The Lord’s word was law, and the people jumped to accommodate him. They brought him back to the carriage in their arms, putting anything soft under his aching back and legs that they could find. The commissioner instructed the driver to go as slow as possible to minimize the jostling of their lord from the bumps in the road, and all the servants spent their night wide awake, waiting for any and all whines and sighs from the master bedroom.
