The Red Tax

The Red Tax

Aranthir II

Night always came unwelcome in the villages near Greykeep. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the villagers ran to their homes and shut the doors. To anyone still in the streets, the sounds of bars dropping into place and shutters slamming would have been a strong warning to follow the lead of the others. So went the end of the day in every village in the fief.

In the village of Honeyfield, astride the main road through the fief, the owners of the Scarlet Swan Inn took their time as the sun dropped lower. Lying within sight of Castle Greykeep and its bald hilltop, Honeyfield was fortunate enough to still see travellers on occasion, such that its inn remained in operation.

The innkeeper swept the threshold clean and looked east towards the castle. Its tall walls were dark against the reddening sky. No lights shone within its halls. The castle's keep jutted nearly twice as high as its curtain wall, rising like a grasping hand into the sky. Narrow finger-towers stretched even higher, now acting as perches for birds and bats that braved their eaves.

Eander put away his broom and went inside his inn. In the empty common room, his wife Margan was polishing the pewterware while their son Torl tended to the fire. Calmly, he joined her at the counter in the polishing. The evening grew darker, the last rays of the run faded over the horizon, the white-walled houses and slate rooves of the village were plunged into night. Eander lit a lamp on the counter to aid in his work.

Somewhere, far beyond the bounds of their little village, a wolf howled. The family worked steadily, trying to busy themselves with something to take their minds off their dying inn and cursed village. It had been a fortnight or more since they had welcomed a guest and, even though spring had arrived at long last, they could scarcely expect more anytime soon.

Suddenly, they heard outside a terrible clattering. Eander sprang up and ran to the window. Peering through the shutters, he looked out into the darkened street. Few in the town dared to burn lamps in the night, though more in Honeyfield than the other villages. For a few terrible moments, there was nothing to be seen outside, nothing to explain the clattering that grew steadily louder.

At last, the source of the noise became visible, and the innkeeper's breath froze in his lungs. It was a great red carriage, lacquered in the color of blood and drawn by four great stallions, white as death itself. Its iron-shod wheels rattled along the village's cobbled streets as it bore down them towards the inn. The innkeeper felt a touch on his arm and saw that his wife and son had joined him at the window, all three sharing the same expression of dread.

The coach rattled its way down the street until it came to an abrupt halt outside, beneath the sign of the Scarlet Swan. The coachman was a small, hunched figure, dressed in a long black cloak and a hat pulled low. He kept his gaze forward, never turning it to look at the buildings to his side.

The coach door swung open and out stepped a man, tall and pale. He was clothed in rich black velvet, with a white kerchief at his throat, and wore a short cape over his left shoulder and a broad-brimmed hat over his head. Brandishing an ivory walking stick, he strode confidently to the Scarlet Swan's front door and rapped the stick on it.

Eander and his family froze in terror. None of them moved, clinging to each other at the window. After a long silence, the man at the door spoke.

"Hello in there, Master Innkeeper. Might I enter your establishment this night? I have come to discuss your tax."

The innkeeper stood as still as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. He could not distinguish its panicked pulse from those of Margan and Torl who clung together with him in fear. A long, terrified silence passed between them.

"I know you are in there," the visitor said, this time in a quiet voice that nevertheless slithered its way through the walls and windows and into the ears of the innkeep's family. "I can smell you," the visitor hissed through perfect white teeth.

The innkeeper could bear no more. He disentangled himself from his family's clutches and went to the door, even as they clutched and grabbed and begged.

The door swung open, and the innkeeper bowed low in deference. "I am at your service my lord," he stammered as lowered his face to the floor."

Count Omarren Jannus var Imre, Count of Duairen and Bezzaim, Margrave of Stetslika and Baron of Imroth, strode into the Scarlet Swan, swinging his ivory walking stick in front of him. His pallid skin shone in the dim light of the inn's fireplace. The count swept the hat from his head and held it in front of him as he looked around. He looked from the ceiling's sturdy timbers to the polished hardwood of the floor. A pot of stew hung over the over flame in the fireplace.

"What a quaint little place," the count mused in a voice of slithering silk.

"As you say, my lord," the innkeeper replied, huddling together with his family.

"As I said," the count continued, sweeping off his black gloves, "I have come to discuss your tax. You, and this village as a whole, have slipped my mind these past some years. I realized only recently that it has been far too long since I called upon you to pay the Red Tax."

The innkeeper shuddered. He felt his Torl's grasp on his shoulder tighten. His knees grew weak. The count moved closer.

"My, my, my..." he whispered, taking Torl by the chin and raising his head to meet his gaze. "This must be your son. A strong and vigorous lad he is. So full of life." The count bared his teeth, flashing a pair of long, white fangs. His head lunged forward like a viper, and he sank his teeth into Torl's neck.

Eander and Margan screamed. Torl's eyes went wide with shock and his knees gave out. The count held him up, drinking greedily of the bloody wound. Count Omarren raised his head again, a frenzied look in his eyes. He licked the blood from around his mouth even as droplets fell onto the white kerchief at his throat.

"I will take your son as payment," the count declared.

"Please, milord, he is my only child. Take me instead! I beg you!" Eander and Margan fell to their knees and raised their hands in prayer. Count Omarren looked into their desperate eyes and scoffed.

"You? You are nothing. Old, worn-out, sour and nearly lifeless. You have nothing I want. This one, however," he stared into Torl's eyes. "This one will prove quite a feast." He lifted the shocked Torl to his feet and ushered him to the door even as the innkeeper and his wife crawled after him, pleading for their son's life. The count stuffed the lad into his carriage and laughed at them a final time.

"Tell your neighbors that I will forget this village no more. I will return next month to collect again. The Red Tax will be paid."

He climbed into the coach and shut the door. The coachman cracked his whip and the blood red carriage sped away, back up the bald hill and into Castle Greykeep.

A month's time later, outside the village, two men rode a horse-drawn cart beneath the leafy boughs of the springtime trees. Driving the cart was a man of about forty, his thick torso wrapped in an old gambeson. He slouched against the seat of the cart, reins and whip in hand as he lazily steered the cart down the road in the waning sunlight of the late afternoon. Chewing seeds in his mouth as they bounced along the dirt path, he occasionally leaned his head to spit the empty shells to the side of the road.

His companion in the cart sat facing the rear, for behind them in the road walked a naked girl. Her hands were bound at the wrists, attached to the cart by a rope. The man in the back watched her walk, his eyes lustily wandering up and down her pale, naked form. He also wore a gambeson and kept one hand on an arquebus while using the other to flick seeds at the poor girl who was his captive.

She was young and pretty, though stained by the dirt of the road. Her slender body was naked but for the cloth wrappings around her feet. Sunlight still streaming through the treetops played across her face, shining in her wide green eyes. Her red lips were pressed against each other in a display of defiance, even as one of her captors flicked empty seeds against her bare breasts. The markings of many earlier hits showed on her supple skin. The man in the back of the cart laughed as one seed struck her between the legs in her shaven sex, causing the girl to visibly wince and break her stride.

Presently, a rider appeared on the wooded path, moving in the opposite direction. He was tall and thin, covered by a gray cloak. His steed was black and of fine breeding, standing perhaps sixteen hands at the shoulder. From the saddle hung a longsword in its scabbard and two holstered wheellock pistols, as well as many full saddlebags.

The rider approached at a casual trot, his strange blue eyes hard and searching as they passed over the lazy men in the cart and the naked girl walking behind it. As he neared, he pulled his horse to a stop.

"Ho there," the rider demanded, "halt your cart, for I have a few questions." He swept his cloak from his head, exposing a head of short black hair and two pointed ears. The drover spat. The man in the back looked away from his naked captive for a moment and sneered.

"Move on, mongrel. I have no patience to waste on your kind." He looked back to the girl, but his companion halted the cart.

"Are you coming from Daum Albor, half-blood?" the broad-shouldered drover asked. "We were on our way there to seek employment in the Realmsguard."

The stranger nodded. "You would seem the type."

"Well, that's an encouragement. Is the king still hiring?"

"He is," the rider pointed to the girl, "Where did you find her?"

The drover laughed. "Found her naked, doing laundry in a stream about two days back on the road to Fellhaven. Garem there liked the look of her, so we picked her up for the trip. We'll likely be bored of her by the time we get to the capital, but if you can make an offer, we'll sell her to you now."

He looked back to his companion. "What do you say, Garem? Thirty silver and let the elf take her?"

Garem scowled. "Nay, the girl is mine. If you want her, look to the brothels in Daum Albor, or to the slave market, but I'll not tire of her for a while and no elf will take her from me."

The rider shrugged. "It's all the same, I don't have thirty silvers anyway. Girl," he called, "Close your eyes."

His hands flashed to the saddle, and a knife sped out from it, burying itself in the drover's throat. His companion started in shock, hefting the arquebus as he stumbled from the cart. He realized the match cord was unlit, but before he could think to lit or abandon it for his sword, the rider spurred his horse toward him, drawing a pistol from the brace at his hip.

Garem looked up at the elf, staring down the barrel of the pistol even as the elf's spare hand closed around another such weapon holstered in the saddle. There was a roar of fire and smoke, and the man fell dead in the road.

"Ugly business, that," the man said, dismounting from his steed. He strode past the dead men to the girl and drew a dagger from his belt. "What's your name, girl?" he asked as he approached.

She considered him for a moment, chewing her lip in thought. She had not closed her eyes, and relished the image of her captors' deaths. As the half-elf stood in front of her, knife in hand, she replied "Yrana, master elf."

"Not an elf," he replied, thrusting the knife into the knot that bound her hands, "Just a half-elf." He sawed through the coarse rope and let the bindings fall into the dirt. "My name is Aranthir. Your village is two days to the north?"

Yrana nodded, rubbing her newly freed wrists. She was hardly conscious of her nakedness, having grown used to the state as the bandits let her through fields and gardens behind their cart, laughing and jeering as they went. Aranthir went to the dead man in the cart and began pulling off his clothing.

"This will be a bit big for a slender girl like you, but it will cover you better than what you have now."

Yrana became modest again all of a sudden. She covered her breasts and sex with her arms as best she could, waiting bashfully in the road while the half-elf stripped off the dead men's clothes and boots. He tossed an old white shirt, bloodstained around the collar, to her and followed it with a pair of breeches and two worn leather boots. Yrana took them off into the brush to the side of the road and dressed herself.

It was far from a perfect fit. The wide and low neckline of the dead man's shirt hung open, exposing her lively, round breasts whenever she moved. The breeches were much too big around the waist as well, but she managed to tie them off into something more fitting.

Returning to the road, she found her rescuer rifling through the cart. He pilfered spare shot, rations, and a pair of silver candlesticks, stowing them all in his bulging saddlebags.

"As it so happens," he said as he resealed his saddlebags, "I am on the road to Fellhaven. I can take you back to your village, if you wish to travel with me."

Yrana nodded eagerly. "Yes, master, I gladly accept. Thank you for your generosity! Oh, thank you!" she fell to her knees and kissed his boots in gratitude.

"Hush now," Aranthir comforted, "I do not need such thanks. Come on, get up." He helped her to her feet. "Here, have a drink while I tend to this cart." He passed her his waterskin and she drank greedily from it. As she did, Aranthir freed the mule from its harness and let it wander off into the woods. Take some final trinkets from the cart, he swung himself up into the saddle. He extended a hand down to Yrana.

"Here, I'll help you up." She looked at him without understanding. "I only have the one horse," he explained, "and that mule won't take any riders. We are going to have to share the saddle."

Yrana took his hand and fumbled about with her foot as she tried to emplace herself and swing up into the saddle. Her pilfered shirt fell open, exposing her small, white breasts again. Aranthir conspicuously did not look and instead used his other hand to help her into the saddle, where she settled the shirt about herself.

"Apologies, master half-elf. I have never ridden a horse before." She wrapped her arms about his waist as, linking her hands together just above his belt buckle. Aranthir smiled to himself as he spurred the horse forward. The girl rested her chin on her shoulder as the horse trotted down the shady path, the distant sun dropping lower still toward the horizon and Aranthir restrained a sigh of contentment.

As the shadows grew longer and the light dimmer, Aranthir turned to his new companion.

"We will find a place to stay for the night in the village up ahead."

"You are a wandering mercenary?" she asked, "I have heard that men such as yourself often sleep in the fields with nothing above their heads but the stars."

"Indeed," Aranthir replied, "but I suspect you have had enough rough nights already. I will find us a place to put a roof over our heads for the night."

"We passed a village earlier," Yrana said, "It shouldn't be too much further."

Aranthir nodded and spurred his horse a little faster. With the day fading fast, he felt his unease growing.

The girl proved correct, and soon they emerged from the forested path into an expanse of fields and orchards. The spring crop was coming in well and the trees were well tended to. Beyond the fields, they could see a village of white walled buildings and yellow thatched roofs. Some buildings even had shingles of wood or slate. Drawing closer, Aranthir could see that the streets were paved with cobblestones. In the saddle, Yrana was growing more relaxed and her grip around his waist loosened. She rested her chin on his shoulder and seemed to be dozing off as they rode.

For his own part, the sight of the village dampened Aranthir's unease only for a short time. Passing down the lanes between the fields, he could see few people in them. Faces peered out at them from the windows of the houses, but the streets were quiet and empty.

Soon, the footfalls of his horse on the cobblestones were echoing off the painted walls of the village and all the while he had not seen a single soul outside.

"There is something strange about this village," Aranthir whispered to her as the rode down the streets. "What did you see when you came through here earlier?"

"Nothing," Yrana replied, returning the stares of three women in the doorway of a farrier's shop. "Garem and Evrek avoided the village so they would not have to explain about me. I only saw it from a distance and all looked normal."

"Keep to yourself here," Aranthir told her, "We will find a place to stay for the night and be gone soon after dawn. Something evil dwells near."

"Evil?" Yrana asked, suddenly straightening in her seat, "What do you mean?" she looked around them, seeing yet more suspicious faces glaring at them from within the houses.

"I sense something is amiss," Aranthir said, his eyes narrowing as they approached the central square. The buildings around the square were well kept and well built. A temple dominated the south end, and on the north end was an inn, demarcated by the sign of a scarlet swan, symbol of good luck. Aranthir dismounted in front of the inn before helping Yrana off the horse. Her looted shirt fell open again and she pulled it closed quickly, though not before a man leering from the second floor of a nearby building caught a glimpse of her round little breasts. The man smirked to himself, before catching a glare from Aranthir. He retreated from the window and disappeared into the darkened room.

Aranthir removed the horse's saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder. Settling his pistols and longsword at his hip, he handed the reins to Yrana and went to the door of the inn. Keenly aware of the eyes fixed upon him from their hidden vantage points, he banged his fist on the door. No one answered. His half-elven ears, however, alerted him to the presence of people within.

Hushed voices whispered back and forth from somewhere beyond the door, too indistinct to make out.

"Aranthir," Yrana called, backing herself against the unhorse as she cast fearful looks at the houses around the square, "perhaps we should leave and find a place to sleep in the woods." She met his gaze, and he could see the fear in her eyes, "This village doesn't want us here."

"There is someone within this inn, and I mean to pay, with good silver, for a night," Aranthir replied firmly. "We will be gone first thing in the morning," he proclaimed loudly, and banged on the door again.

This time, he heard the voices again, followed by footfalls growing closer. He stepped back from the door as it swung open. At the door was a man, middle-aged but badly worn down by life's woes. He worn an innkeeper's apron and a gray tunic, with black shoes that needed to be polished. He attempted a welcoming smile as he gestured for them to enter.

"Greetings, travellers, and welcome to the Scarlet Swan. My wife Magdan will see to your horse, fine thing it is," he said as a woman emerged from the darkened inn behind him. She was of a similar age but even more tired of life than her husband. She wore a drab dress of faded blue, covering her head with a mantle of old white cloth. She cast furtive looks at both Aranthir and Yrana as she scurried past them and took the horse's reins. The woman disappeared around the side of the inn as quickly as she had come.

"Welcome again," the innkeeper said, bowing deferentially as he ushered his two guests into the common room. "My name is Eander and I will be your host for the night. We are a humble establishment, so I am afraid we have no private rooms. You will have to sleep before the hearth."