III: The Barber Among Men

[Altiak 1648]

 

 

Chapter III:

The Barber Among Men

 

30th of the Deep Cold, 1537

The Once-Proud Hamlet called The Saltpans, on The Isle of Ulmsbottom

Edgar de Saltpans is reunited with his compatriots.

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

When Edgar de Saltpans opened his eyes, he awoke to a bleary and gray sky full of heavy clouds that chugged indolently across the heavens. As his cognizance returned to him, he became vaguely mindful of the fact that he was laying on the wooden floor of some sort of boat, and of the soft bobbing and rocking that would occur as the vessel glided over what he assumed was water. Edgar groaned as he lifted his head, overcome suddenly with the wearisome understanding that a considerable part of his life was spent gazing up at the stars.

 

Edgar shook his head laboriously, as if to rid himself of such a doleful realization. Glancing down, he saw that where the flesh of his leg had been torn and ravaged by the jackal’s teeth there was a binding of bloodied cloth. Edgar looked from his bandaged leg to the strange, unspeaking man that sat at the boat’s helm, rowing neatly across the inundated and barren swampland.

 

His broad back turned to Edgar, features obscured by a hood, the figure wore a grimy and moth-eaten tabard girdled with a simple length of rope. Not once did Edgar’s rescuer turn around to spare him a glance; his attention was wrested firmly on the imminent shoreline ahead as he guided the boat to land.

 

It did not take long for Edgar to deduce his location. He recognized these waters as those of the Silent Sea, a laconic name thought up by a rustic folk who no longer knew it by any other appellation. No roving seabirds greeted them from above, for they had all flown elsewhere. The waters of the so-called sea were host to no fish; their numbers had been winnowed long ago by the desperation of famine. The coast was bare, save for a cluster of rough crosses and cairns of stone that stood out in stark contrast to the austere landscape.

 

When the rickety watercraft came ashore, Edgar sat up with a sigh as he watched the ferryman busy himself with mooring the boat. After he had pulled the wooden craft aground, the large man pulled back his hood to reveal a thick and untameable plumage of hair that would never betray his age if it had not been for the lusterless slate color to it. As he turned to look back to the sea, the sight of a familiar face comforted Edgar and enlivened him all the same. He struggled to find his balance, grabbing at the boat’s hull to support his fatigued attempt at a stand.

 

Only after Edgar had limped onto the beachy shore, wobbling and cursing himself for every step of the way, did his heavyset savior speak.

 

“You’ve come from far away, nephew. It’s some wonder that ye’ survived th’ Mires.”

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

Edgar stared for a long time at the seaside burial ground, grinding his teeth as a bevel of discordant voices from the past swam up to greet him. He turned to face the patient ferryman, lip quivering as he took in his weathered and ruddy features. Again, the man spoke, his voice deep and harsh.

 

“Welcome ‘ome, Edko.”

 

Edko.

 

A name he had not heard for some many years.

 

Edgar felt himself step over the coarse sand to meet his uncle in an amicable embrace, a broad grin taking form upon his haggard features. He remembered the squat and hardy man fondly, as the only redeeming aspect of the crestfallen isle on which he stood. Edgar’s uncle lived life on his own accord, unfettered by the crucibles of politics and legislature. The man’s name was Slobodan, and in the pair’s native tongue, his name meant freedom.

 

“What brings you back ‘ere, then? All these years, my boy...”

 

Edgar’s mouth hung agape, and it took him a momentary repose before he could find words once more. “I… I know not, uncle.”

 

Slobodan released Edgar from his iron grip, shrewd eyes narrowing as he searched his kinsman’s face for some notion of verity. At last the blubbery ferryman nodded gravely, making his way up the beach and through the rows of grave markers. Edgar followed suit.

 

Not long after the pair left behind the somber shoreline, they came to a tree where there was tethered an unruly mule and, attached to it, a wagon laden heavy with bottle upon bottle of brew. It made Edgar wonder if it had been by chance that Slobodan had happened across him. As he nestled up amidst the crates of pungent moonshine, however, and rode along behind his uncle’s braying mare through a land awash with mud and bare ground, he discerned the folly in his musings. In all his dealings, Slobodan did not leave anything to chance. It was his wit and guile that had succeeded him for all his years.

 

As far as Slobodan de Saltpans was concerned, luck could take a holiday.

 

They rode quietly for awhile before Edgar’s uncle spoke up, asking of his time abroad.

 

“Tell me, Edko. Radovan, is ‘e well? What o’ little Kazik?”

 

Again, he was addressed by that dreaded name of his. He hadn’t heard it since the days of his childhood, and despite the benign nature to Slobodan’s tone something about it grated on Edgar. At the very same time, the mention of his half-brother conjured up sour thoughts, recollections of Radovan’s limp form swaying from under a rope, saved with not a moment to spare. Edgar recalled the girl Radovan had lost - winsome, spontaneous, a creature beholden to none but her own free will. He remembered how on the last night he saw him, his brother had set off in search of Bonnie, still clutching futilely to the hope that she was alive.

 

It was the same futile hope that Edgar now felt when he thought of Radovan.

 

“Radovan’s tendin’ to some personal business, uncle. Kazik’s runnin’ a tavern.”

 

Slobodan heaved up his immense shoulders in contemplation, barking a terse reply.

 

“Personal business, eh? What ‘appened to yer brother? Never been th’ sort t’ leave his kin for no personal business.”

 

Edgar paused as the wagon hit a rock on the road, the offensive contents of the moonshine bottles sloshing onto his dirt-speckled clothes. Tightening his grip on the wagon’s edge, Edgar cursed.

 

“He’s fallen in love, our Radovan. Don’t fret, he’ll return sooner or later.”

 

The junior Saltpans’ tone, for all his effort, came off as settled and confident despite his own inner doubts. Following a hearty chortle from Slobodan, a brief silence overcame the pair once more. Edgar took the opportunity to launch a query of his own, as the cart rattled over the cobbled road.

 

“What about yerself? How’ve ye’ fared ‘ere in this ‘ellhole?”

 

“Well, Edko, I…”

 

The smuggler’s baritone voice trailed off as he sighted a charred, blackened monolith in the distance, perched atop a hill to look out on the desolate landscape below. Edgar followed Slobodan’s gaze and winced as he looked over the ruined spires of what had once been a dignified house of God. For a moment, when Edgar closed his eyes, the church was aflame once more, bathed in cruel orange light. This time, the silence that ensued was a pained one. And for a man like Edgar, who watched Slobodan’s gauntleted palm close around the four-pointed cross that dangled from his neck, his silence bore more meaning that any uttered condolences or prayers could deliver.
 

 

After Slobodan and Edgar had travelled past the desecrated church’s husk, their silent eulogy a monument to the memories of the past, Edgar tensed as he saw that the road ahead approached a vague gathering of buildings built up around the shore. Were it not for the thin, wispy contrails of smoke that snaked up into the sky from the chimneys, one could have easily mistaken the settlement ahead for another ruin. But as the town grew closer, Edgar saw that perhaps it was little more than a ruin after all.

 

 

The Saltpans were a downtrodden and wretched collection of half-destroyed, thatched hovels, built up around each other with a haphazard and unplanned measure to their shape. Edgar saw firsthand just how much his home had deteriorated as he passed a series of ransacked, uninhabited buildings. As for the houses that showed signs of life, they looked as though whatever materials could be accrued to maintain them were put to use. Edgar watched miserable laymen working the near-naked fields of wheat, and he felt the eyes of numerous febrile peasants on him as they shuffled around the town, bent double under loads of hay.

 

Edgar watched perplexedly as the occupants of the pitiful huts wandered out of their homes, their feverish eyes bearing down on him. He felt panic rise in him as, in pockets of twos and threes, they approached him, grabbing crates of moonshine and hauling them from the cart before shambling back towards their homes. Slobodan remained unruffled by this occurrence, greeting the downcast men and women of the Saltpans as his mule paraded through the lifeless hamlet. Edgar saw countless faces - faces of a people he once knew as hale and hearty - as he rode through the Saltpans. They were all alike with their dolorous expressions and gaunt, malnourished frames, and in the way they moved gloomily about like phantoms.

 

 

By the time his uncle’s mare left behind the sagging and wilted houses of the town’s heart, his cart was empty save for the errant young man that lay in it. With a boisterous cry, Slobodan slowed the mule to a stand-still, his coarse hands gently patting the trusty beast’s mane. The cart had stopped beside a homestead unlike most others in this war-torn region. He recognized it instantly, but something about it struck Edgar as different. It appeared more youthful and more pristine than when he last laid eyes upon the structure - as if it had aged backwards.

 

After disembarking his mule, Slobodan walked round to the cart as Edgar began to hoist himself up, slinging an immense arm around his nephew’s shoulder. With his kinsman’s assistance, Edgar walked haltingly toward the homestead’s opening, fixated on the thought of rest. Fumbling with the key to his door, Slobodan finally managed to best the intricate padlock and step foot into his proud sanctuary.

 

Once inside, Edgar squinted in the dim light as he looked around the cluttered and expansive interior. Slobodan helped his nephew over to a seat by a blazing hearth, muttering something about grub before he disappeared down a corridor and was gone. Edgar shut his eyes tight and sunk back in the chair, allowing himself a moment of much-needed repose. But not far from him, he heard a creak and as he glanced toward its direction, he realized he was basking in the fire’s warmth with another.

 

“I never figured you to be the type to run from your problems.”

 

It was the gravelly voice of a great and renowned man - one whose presence in such squalor baffled and amazed Edgar all at once. It was the voice of Adrian de Bar. Edgar glanced to the daunting man who sat a mere few feet from him, noting foremost how Adrian looked like he had aged ten years. His once-inky locks were a severe cast of gray, and he wore the characteristic scowl that was so befitting of him since the death of his brother. Defiantly, the younger man muttered a dark retort.

 

“I’m not runnin’ from anythin’.”

 

Edgar’s harsh, blunt form of speech sounded a world apart to that of the well-mannered and eloquent nobleman that sat alongside him. After growing distant and falling out of contact with the foreboding Ashford count, Edgar’s choice of words made him feel inferior and foolish. Then he remembered that this was his home and that he was amongst his people. He would not let himself be shamed by this newcomer.

 

“I’ve not got a country t’ run, besides.”

 

Edgar’s words were carried by a cruel tone, one that was not his own. He scarcely ever spoke with such disdain, for he preferred maintaining that air of level-headedness and pragmatism when dealing with friends, foes, and competitors alike. Rare was it that a threat escaped his lips. More often than not, he chose to act rather than to speak.

 

But Adrian de Bar was not one to be slighted by a man half his age. The lord’s greying eyes pierced Edgar’s and bore no anger or admonition, but an eerie blankness instead. “Neither do I, de Saltpans. My sons and grandsons are more than capable of doing that, in case you were not aware.”

 

Edgar’s jaw jutted in frustration, the winter cold losing its chill for a moment as he pondered before the fire. Adrian leaned closer to scrutinize him, resting his elbows on the arms of his chairs.

 

“Now, then. Tell me, Edgar: why have you come back to this isle? You have become as much of a stranger to these lands as I find myself to be.”

 

“I’ve come to speak with my uncle,” said Edgar. His response was clipped and distant in nature, prompting de Bar’s glower to darken. With all the chagrin of a disappointed father the nobleman spoke again.

 

“Come now, de Saltpans. Do you think me naive? We might not share a surname, but you and I are kinsmen. The very same blood courses through our veins.”

 

The youngster raised up his hand in concession to the count’s words. It was true - Adrian de Bar was kin to him. He was of the Ashford ilk, after all. Feeling that he owed Adrian the truth, Edgar spoke.

 

“I’ve come to call upon my kindred and rally the Saltpans men still loyal to the name of Ashford. We’ll not survive without ‘em, back on Vailor.”

 

As soon as he had concluded, Edgar saw that Adrian donned an atypical expression. The elderly Ashford’s eyes glinted with high praise towards him - with admiration, even.

 

“Then, perhaps I’ve not misjudged you after all. My retinue and I have journeyed here for the very same reason, you see.”

 

Adrian de Bar rose suddenly with a vigor that had long been kept suppressed, and for a moment his shadow filled the room as he loomed over Edgar.

 

“Come, then,” said Adrian.

 

The count of Drusco extended a gloved hand outward, which Edgar took no hesitation in accepting. After helping de Saltpans to his feet, the grizzled nobleman led him down a narrow hallway congested with trunks and barrels, and through an oaken door that led outside. Slobodan’s home had been erected mere paces from a high cliff’s edge, looking out over the Silent Sea, and as Edgar stepped out into the crisp evening he could see water for boundless miles ahead. He had come to know this place well, when he was but a child; he even knew what lay below the lofty peak his uncle settled upon decades ago. But as he and the nobleman beside him neared this mountain’s hazardous ledge, what he saw next took him by surprise.

 

Just as Edgar remembered, there was a rudimentary dockyard hundreds of feet below him, nestled snugly into an indentation on the seacoast. Be that as it may, Edgar had never before seen the quays and gangways of the inlet so abuzz with activity. It was teeming with able-bodied crewmen and laborers who were busy hauling a seemingly endless supply of cargo to a trio of ivory-sailed sloops that were docked at the harbor. As Edgar looked to Adrian in search of an explanation, he was greeted with another surprise; his weathered companion wore a broad grin as he watched the legion of workers make ready for their journey below.

 

The image struck Edgar as dreamlike and abstract, for it was the first time he had seen Adrian de Bar smile.

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

Once the sun had dipped low and disappeared beyond the distant waters of the Silent Sea, Edgar found himself seated at his uncle’s round wooden table, a bowl of steaming goulash in his hands. Across from him, Adrian de Bar was ensconced in his chair, palms laid flat on the table’s surface. He did not bother touching the meal in front of him. Slobodan himself was sitting at the timeworn count’s flank, grinding his teeth, but also present were two men of Adrian’s retinue whom Edgar was less familiar with.

 

The grim-faced and brooding man who was seated to Edgar’s right he recognized as Ser Caspar de Gueux, a knight of Savoy. Leftwards of him there sat a taciturn and well-groomed fellow who spoke with a guarded timidity, introducing himself as the scribe Matthias de Lyon. Once the time for introductions had passed, Slobodan was the first to speak, addressing Edgar and Adrian with gusto.

 

“So, then - ye’ve both journeyed all this way in search o’ th’ same thing. Ye’ seek an answer, plain t’ see. I s’pose I should give one.”

 

The thickset smuggler’s features creased as he conceded a coy grin, spreading his arms wide toward his two kinsmen in earnest.

 

“My answer to both o’ ye’ is th’ same. The men o’ th’ Saltpans are with ye’ ‘til the final settin’ o’ th’ sun. We’ll ne’er forget th’ sons o’ Saint Lucien. You’ll not find a more dutiful band o’ men in th’ whole o’ this blasted isle. The warriors o’ God fight for ye’.”

 

"So, then," said the man called Matthias incredulously. "A group of bedlamer boys from these stinking marshes? Forgive my curtness, but they may do more harm than good back amidst our retainers when we make for Vailor."

 

Edgar's uncle gave a rigid shake of his head. "I understand yer' doubts, Master de Lyon. Th' Saltpans've not given you much o' an impression, plain t' see. I don't blame ye', roightly. But you must understand - I've known th' men fer years. I've gathered 'em from Saint Lucien all th' way t' Aesica. They're th' strongest and bravest o' men ye could 'ope to 'ave, be 'em from Vailor or Ulmsbottom. I'd not 'ave another band o' bedlamer boys at my side."

 

Slobodan dipped his head, jovial expression never seeming to fade. His confident demeanor appeared to suggest that he would welcome the tribulations that lay ahead of him. Be that as it was, Edgar knew well that Slobodan was not just a carefree old man, no matter how he portrayed himself. His uncle was a man of steadfast and pure resolve, and he felt all the better to hear his words of affirmation. Adrian was the next to speak, answering Slobodan with a certain lordly formality and cadence. He did not know Slobodan like Edgar did. He knew not that beneath the amiable, pious exterior of the hefty man, there was a bottomless well of pent-up scorn that he longed to make known.

 

“You have my gratitude, kinsman-”

 

“No, Lord Adrian. You ‘ave mine.”

 

Slobodan interjected brusquely, and Edgar found himself unable to measure the look in his eyes, but the count of Drusco did not seem taken aback by his words. Edgar noted the wordless exchange with crossed arms before his eyes darted to the two stern-faced retainers that had accompanied their iron-willed liege to the edge of the world. Edgar smiled to himself. They had partisan’s blood, the both of them. They toiled and fought for the name of Ashford alone.

 

“Master de Lyon? Ser Caspar?”

“Blood for Ashford,” intoned the latter of the two boastfully, to elicit a fervent nod from de Lyon. The five men who had gathered around Slobodan’s table exchanged knowing glances, for they knew that the coming days would be wrought with trials and hardships.

 

“Th’ men are ready t’ set off, my liege,” said Slobodan. “We await further order.”

 

Adrian waved away the remark with an air of certainty, while his retinue nodded in a dutiful fashion.

 

“These men belong to you, Father Slobodan, and to Edgar here. I am not here to be their master; I am here to make allies of them.”

 

As Adrian had finished, Edgar and Slobodan shared in a mutual feeling of gratification.

 

“A toast, then,” said Edgar.

 

Slobodan stood with a robust bellow of laughter while Adrian and his two compatriots mimicked him, raising their crude, ligneous mugs high above their heads.

 

“And to what, shall we toast, dear Edgar?” asked Adrian, awaiting a response from the resilient young man. Edgar felt the eyes of his comrades on him, expectant and willing. He hauled himself to his feet, meeting the gaze of his four compatriots.

 

“To the very same blood that courses within our veins,” said Edgar de Saltpans. “To Ashford.”

 

 

 

This time it was the junior Saltpans’ response that caught Adrian by surprise, but as the assemblage of patriots echoed his rallying cry and clanked their cups together all misgivings and grievances faded away. Once they had supped and drank to their own content, making solemn affirmations to fight in Ashford's name until the dying of the sun, the men disbanded and each found a spot to rest for the night. For Edgar, the sleep that took him was long overdue. He dreamed of the picturesque hamlet that was once his home, but he dreamed also of the adversity that he was bound to face in the path he chose to take. Edgar was not afraid. The boats were ready to make sail. In the morn, he would begin the journey back to Vailor, the journey that destiny had bestowed upon him.

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

 

 

The armada of ash-colored sloops sped over the waves, propelled by great winds. Their white sails were globed and full from the celestial gusts that carried them, and by the quickness of their journey it seemed that God himself had blessed the voyage. Their decks were astir with eager and vigorous men who passed their time with swelling invocations and chants to the Creator. To Edgar, their collective euphony was far more fearsome than any jackal’s song, and their pious demeanor far more intimidating than that of any carrion bird.

 

The men who sailed from the Saltpans were of a unique and long-lived breed, by reason of their stalwart and unflinching loyalty to the men of Ashford. They knew that what world awaited them over the far-reaching waters of the Silent Sea was one vastly foreign to their own, but they were not afraid. They were under the benediction of God, and with the guidance of his light they were certain to succeed in what they had set out to do.

 

From aboard the ship that headed the fleet, there was only one man who was by his lonesome. He had come to Ulmsbottom with a darkness in his heart, but as he left behind its drab shores the vernal youth thought back in wonderment of how far he had come since the aftermath of White Mountain. He had undertaken a hellish gauntlet in his search for men still loyal to the Ashford name, and he was sure that his newfound companions admired him all the more for his determination.

 

Edgar de Saltpans felt oddly at ease as he surveyed the churning waters ahead, feeling the dip and pull of the sea as his vessel glided over it, rhythmically, methodically. It was not a leisurely occupation, to be a sailor on the Silent Sea. But then again, there was no man, woman, or child hailing from the Saltpans who knew the privileges of a leisurely life. Edgar knew this well, and he knew all the same that he was no longer alone in his endeavor for justice. There was a singular identity to the band of men he had taken with him from his home; they were a devout sort that were alike in vigor and patriotism both. Men like Adrian de Bar, men like Slobodan de Saltpans.

 

Edgar de Saltpans had been pondering on these realizations from the very moment that the cadre of loyalists set off for the storied realm of Vailor, but there was one calming epiphany that only now washed over him. Gripped by this fulfilling thought, Edgar felt himself smile wistfully as the waves crashed at the ship’s hull.

 

The worst of what had been seen was yet to come.

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

excited to be roleplaying again, credits to NORMDOGGO for all his help with these posts

 

 

 

 

[CheekyNolan 5420]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.