Lord Soth (9 page)

Chapter 4

“It was my tree and be had no right to cut it down!” said Vin
Dowell, a tall wiry farmer from Tyrell, a small village to the west of Dargaard Keep located on the eastern bank of the Vingaard River.

“I didn’t cut it down, I only trimmed the branches that were hanging over my land,” said Thom Tregaard, a short squat man with a barrel-shaped belly, long white hair and a matching tapered, gray-white beard.

As the two men blathered on, Soth rolled his eyes and shifted nervously in his high-backed throne chair, searching for that always elusive comfortable position in which to sit. It was the morning of Palast, the one day each week he set aside for the settling of land claims and similar disputes among the people of Knightlund. Sometimes the disputes were of interest to Soth, such as the ones involving some type of crime, the honor of a woman, or a chivalric sort of challenge between two parties.

But this, this was a squabble between two clucking hens.

“Which you had absolutely no right to do,” said Dowell.
“A man’s tree is a man’s tree. The next thing you’ll be doing is cutting down my fence because you don’t like the shadow it casts upon your land.”

“I’d never damage a fence. And certainly not one that serves well as a border between myself and the likes of you!”

Soth leaned forward and held his head in his hands.

“Not to worry, you wouldn’t catch me on that weed-infested patch of soil you dare to call a farm.” Do well crossed his arms and turned up his nose in disgust.

“Oh, so my side of the fence is good enough for your tree, but not good enough for you, eh?” Tregaard’s face was turning a deep shade of red and his breath was growing deeper and more rapid.

The two men moved closer, rolling up their sleeves in preparation for a fight.

Soth had seen and heard just about as much as he could stand. Although he was mildly interested in seeing which of the two men would emerge the victor of a fistfight—Dowell having the longer reach, Tregaard possessing a decided weight advantage—he couldn’t, in good conscience, allow matters to get out of hand.

“Enough!” he cried, his booming voice shocking the two farmers into silence. When he had their attention, Soth sat up straight in his chair and looked the taller of the two farmers straight in the eye. “Now, Vin Dowell, were some of your tree’s branches hanging over onto Tregaard’s land?”

The farmer maintained eye contact with Soth for several seconds, then looked away. “Yes, milord.” The words were whispered, a mere shadow of the voice he’d used seconds before on his fellow farmer.

“And you, Thom Tregaard, cut down the tree or just the branches?”

Tregaard was quick to answer. “Just the branches, milord.”

“And what of the fruit on those branches?”

“They’re in his cold storage room—” barked Dowell.

Soth held up his hand to silence the man.

“Well?” Soth prodded Tregaard.

“As he said, they are in my cold storage.”

“I see,” said Soth, pausing a moment to consider the situation. The trick to finding a solution acceptable to both parties was to give them the illusion that each of them was coming away the winner. But, how to do that?

“Since the branches were overhanging on Tregaard’s land, he was well within his rights to cut the offending branches from the tree.”

Tregaard’s face was suddenly brightened by a big self-satisfied grin.

“However,” continued Soth. “Because the tree was Dowell’s, the branches should be returned to him lest he should want to use them as firewood, and the fruit that was borne by those branches are
his
property and should be in
his
cold storage room by the end of the week. By Bakukal to be precise.”

It was Dowell’s turn to beam.

“Now, shake hands like gentlemen, and return to Tyrell as good neighbors.”

“Yes milord,” said Dowell.

“Thank you, milord,” said Tregaard.

Both men sounded grateful, but nevertheless defeated.

“Very well, then,” said Soth. “This matter is closed.”

As spectators and other interested parties began to file out of the throne room, Soth breathed a sigh of relief. His role as Knightlund’s chief justice was done for yet another week and the next dreaded Palast morning court was a blessed seven full days away.

Soth had thought he would have enjoyed some of the more mundane aspects of ruling Knightlund, but just two short months after his wedding and ascension to the Order of the Rose, he had come to realize that that simply was not the case. He yearned to draw his sword in battle, to feel its honed edge cutting into the flesh and cracking the bones of his enemies. It was what he had been trained
to do. But, here he was a Knight of Solamnia, a Knight of the Rose, performing the duties of a common clerk.

For a brief moment he admired his father’s ability to oversee Knightlund so capably, and so happily, for so many years.

He rose from his throne, wondering what unremarkable task would require his attention that afternoon when suddenly—

“Milord, milord!” The voice was that of the squire stationed as a lookout on the top level of the keep.

Soth remained standing, waiting almost impatiently for the squire to appear. At last he ran into the room, out of breath and obviously excited.

“A rider,” he said, taking a breath. “A lone rider approaches from the south, at full gallop.”

Soth felt the hair on his arms bristle with anticipation. Clearly the rider was on a mission of great urgency.

“Is he flying any colors?”

“Red.”

“Prepare to lower the bridge!” he bellowed, his words echoing throughout the keep. Soth followed the squire out of the room and made his way outside, where the rider was bringing his horse to a stop in the center of the entrance area just inside the keep’s gatehouse. A small crowd of knights, squires and others had gathered about, all curious to learn what was afoot. The rider had entered slowly, his horse appearing to be on the brink of exhaustion. Even now that his ride had come to an end, the rider seemed no better off and looked rather ragged and sore after what was obviously a long, hard ride. He was helped from his mount slowly, his movements suggesting each movement of his arms or legs was painful to make.

When he finally had both feet on the ground, footmen took hold of his shoulders and helped him over to where Lord Soth waited.

After letting himself down onto one knee, the rider looked up at the lord of the keep and grimaced to fight off
a fresh stab of pain. “Ogres,” he managed to say, still slightly out of breath.

Soth stepped closer to the rider, noticing for the first time that there were bruises on one side of his face and down along his neck to the shoulder, wounds likely made by an ogre’s vine bola or cluster ball. “Where?”

The rider had managed to catch some of his breath and was now composed enough to manage something resembling coherent speech. “I’ve come from the village of Halton. The ogres have moved north upon us from Throtyl, commandeering our stores and laying siege to the village. Several villagers have been killed, some others have been wounded. I only managed to get away by acting as if my wounds were fatal, then stealing a horse at nightfall.”

Soth nodded. Halton was a small but vital agricultural center south of Dargaard Keep on the western foot of the Dargaard Mountains. It served as the initial trade center for much of the annual fall harvests in the region and was often called “Harvest Home” by people all across the plains and throughout southern Solamnia.

Throtyl, on the other hand, was a pocket of lawlessness in the southern tip of the Dargaard Mountains. It was situated in a small forest which opened upon a broad marshy plain called Throt. To the east of the plain lay a passageway through the Dargaard Mountains called the Throtyl Gap. The gap was a place infested with marauding bands of outlaws, barbarians and ogres who made their living smuggling goods through the gap, charging heavy tolls for safe passage, or simply by preying upon unsuspecting travelers. For years Soth had been satisfied to look the other way because the ogres were relatively few in numbers and generally kept to themselves, and because most travelers of Ansalon knew to keep well clear of the gap. Finally, he tolerated them because they were so well entrenched in the forest that any expedition he might mount would likely cost the lives of too many knights and
gain far too little in return to make it worth the effort.

This however, was another matter entirely. People of Knightlund had been killed and wounded. His people. And still, many others remained in danger and would be without food through the winter if nothing were done to vanquish the ogres.

“You’ve done well,” Soth told the rider. “Get some food in you, and a change of clean clothing. Then we’ll meet in the Knights’ Chambers to discuss our battle plans.”

He turned to address the rest of those present, perhaps even the entire keep. “Begin preparations,” he barked, sending squires and footmen scurrying. “We shall be leaving as soon as possible.”

Soth placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. It felt good in his hand, and it would feel even better being swung against an opponent in battle.

Whenever they might be leaving the keep, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

Soth found Lady Korinne alone in their bedchamber. She was sitting by the window reading one of the thirty-seven volumes written by Vinas Solamnus which outlined the Measure of the Knights of Solamnia. She had begun reading the volumes that were housed in the keep’s library shortly after their wedding and had dedicated most of her waking hours to reading every word in every volume so that she might better understand the laws of conduct to which her husband was bound.

Curious about his wife’s progress, Soth checked the number of the volume—twenty-six. Soon she would be as familiar with the Measure as any knight, perhaps even more so. It was a generous gesture, one which endeared his wife to Soth—if it were in fact possible for him to love her any more than he already did.

“There is trouble to the south,” said Soth, kneeling by
his wife’s side and placing his hands in hers.

“I’ve heard as much.”

“It pains me to leave you here, but the people of Halton need me. Several have died, and more will certainly perish if we don’t make haste.”

Lady Korinne smiled lovingly and shook her head. “Dear Loren, how sweet that you feel you must tell me lies to protect my feelings.”

Soth was somewhat taken aback by his wife’s assertion. “I am certainly not telling you lies.”

“Oh yes you are,” she said, her voice still soft and loving. “You said you can’t bear to leave the keep, but I know there’s nothing your heart yearns for more than to be traveling Solamnia with your knights at your side, battling Evil.”

Soth returned her smile. “You know me too well, then.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “I just know that for you, or any Knight of Solamnia, there is no choice between the drudgery of keep life and an all-out battle against Evil.”

Soth smiled. “In that you are correct,” he said, realizing his wife clearly understood what was needed most from the wife of a Knight of Solamnia—understanding.