by Vincent Wolfram
in Issue 136, May 2023
I.
Rain drifted in shrouds over the valley, droplets fine as sand scouring his cheeks with the burning cold. The giant eased under the drape of the mist after cresting the hill, his boots sinking ankle-deep in the mud as he worked down the incline. His beast of burden lowed petulantly but continued forward. For all his bulk, the beast did not slide.
The highland fields he had crossed were green, the mournful rains of autumn sustaining the grasses a little longer before frost turned them as white-haired as old men. Here the grass was sallow and brittle, somehow dry in spite of the downpour.
Out of the murk, a family of drab-dressed farmers – a hard-eyed man pressed to the brink of collapse, a stern wife bearing his burden, and a passel of solemn children – passed by in a rickety buckwagon. Their dray struggled uphill, its bony legs shaking under the strain of the cart, hooves sliding in the wet mud. What little the family had was too much for the old nag to bear. The giant felt pity for the horse. He hoped she would find green pastures and rest beyond the bounds of this valley.
The children gawked as he passed, and he felt the farmer’s watchful eyes on his broad back. He knew why. Giants of Sindrum seldom ranged this far south. If he guessed right, they also had never seen a saddled longhorn bull. For what manner of man could ride such a beast? He smiled at them, his teeth brightening the day’s drear. The farmer whipped his poor nag to go faster.
The man stood twenty hands high, tall enough to look a horse in the eye and heavy enough to break its back. His dark blond hair hung in lank braids, unwashed for the past two moons spent crossing the highland moors. Laugh lines grooved his face and, in spite of the cold, merry fire kindled in his hazel eyes.
The valley’s arms embraced a farming village that stood beside a stretch of marshland, where the cypress grew thick and the bracken twined. The buildings here were rude shacks, flimsy as props in a mummer’s show. The man was accustomed to strange stares and stranger welcomes when he rode into remote villages such as this, but the main road was dead, silent but for the moans of the wind. Few of the chimneys issued smoke.
His bull punted him in the side, snorting for a meal he did not have. His food satchel held its usual store of leeks, lentils, carrots, and parsnips, but they were not enough to feed his brawny steed. His other parcel, wrapped in sackcloth and strapped to the bull’s flank, held something so foul the man dared not think it. Even to countenance this burden was to brook evil.
“Hush, Vincarlo, you greedy thing. I will bring you to barn and barley as soon as I am able.” The man stroked the bull’s side, and the beast tossed his great horns. He smirked. Vincarlo may permit him to ride, but the bull was still an animal. A beast demands respect, as much as any man.
They trudged through the hoof pocked streets, splashing as they went, to find suitable lodging. None save a rooster walked here. The resplendent red creature clucked and strutted through the rain, the whole village his kingdom. A few chickens nestled together under the roof of a shack.
Through the haze of the rain, he descried a stone tower, and though his patience was vast, the giant ambled faster toward it, eager to end the day’s journey. It was a steeple built of flint, almost as dark as the clouds above. Most churches were built of wood in this country, where few quarries were mined. He hoped to beg the parson for lodging, for himself and Vincarlo. A parson of a fine stone church might have finer provender.
A din issued from the church house, not the stately drone of preaching or high melodious hymns, but the discord of a rabble. Though his heart misgave him – he did not wish to leave his bull alone to the chill and rain – he tied the bridle to a hitching post across from the church and patted the beast’s flank.
“I will only be a moment, friend. Easy, old man. Easy.”
Vincarlo snorted. A mattock of grass grew beneath the post, protected from the beating of hooves in the road, fed by rainwater from the lip of the roof. The bull tore this rare sprig of green and chewed the cud and was silent.
The giant stood before the church door and listened. Men and women traded barbs and arguments and curses. Small communities distrusted strangers. He could sense the parish’s discontent, anger simmering in the indistinct words. Perhaps there might be another village, less blighted and wrathful than here, but it would lie far off. There were only a few hours of gray daylight left.
You catch the fish that is at the end of your hook. You reap the crop you sowed. So his father told him.
He entered.
The room was stiflingly warm from the heat of the crowd and a burning fire, the scent of woodsmoke and wet wool intermingling. Cypress chairs, various in form, carved by different hands, were left empty as the congregation stood in muttering huddles. A round-faced, black-frocked minster stood at the head of the crowd, urging silence.
“It is as I have warned you, my people, the cozening witch did not appear at my summons. She fears to show her face in this town, not for shame mind you, but because she fears us. Even a diabolist’s powers cannot overcome the will of the godly.”
“And what would you have us do?” a man’s voice cried out. “There are no warriors here. She would feed us to the eels, she would. Even to Scharrod.”
Men and women shuddered. Some made gestures of prayer to their gods or fouler gestures of imprecation.
“I shall protect us, as we enter the marshes,” the minister announced.
A titter rang out, and a child was shushed. The minister’s face darkened, eyebrows crunching to a hideous glare.
“Would you have our crops further destroyed?!” he cried. The crowd remained diffident.
“Could it possibly get worse?” a farmer retorted. The jest was dark and bitter as soot. The church reeked of desperation.
“There is some hope before the winter comes,” a woman said. “If we offer her up to the gods as a sacrifice, maybe a bumper crop could…” She lost confidence.
As much as he had desired the warmth of the church, the giant now found it suffocating. He would not suffer listening to this petty inquisition any longer. He pitied the poor woman that incurred the crowd’s wrath, but he would not interpose, lest he be the next accused of witchcraft.
The man stepped back into the biting rain, slipping out without notice. He expected he would travel a league further before he found his rest, but he abruptly stopped for a villager attempting to enter the church. The gap-toothed codger gaped at him.
“Wight of Sindrum,” the gray-hair muttered, his awe lapsing into brusqueness. “You come on a light-forsaken day, giant. Winter fell early on Dirk-au-fen.” The old man tried to edge past him, and the giant pretended not to notice. A ghost of mischief creased his lips.
“Aye, of Sindrum. I am called Brom. Well met, sir.”
The old man named himself Renois, lower lip curled over his upper, trying still to edge past the giant, shivering the while. Brom’s eyes sparkled.
“Vincarlo and I are in need of lodging. A barn for him, a tavern for me.”
“Vincarlo?” The old codger scratched the whiskers on his chin. Brom nodded to the hitching post across the street, where the bull ruminated.
The old man regarded Vincarlo, licking his lips furtively. “Ain’t no tavern, Brom of Sindrum. The innkeeper forsook the town. Many have. But if you need lodging, I can provide it for you and your bull, if you have the guilders for it.”
The dried gourd that served as the giant’s purse was empty. He shook it to show that it did not jingle. The old man chewed his tongue and looked Brom up and down, as if eyeing a donkey at market.
At length, Renois said, “The wife’s sick, and my boy is gone. He left with the others as soon as the soil turned sour. You are welcome at my board if you help me catch dinner. But for soul’s sake, let me pass you! My bones need warming before we fish the bayou.”
The giant let him pass but did not follow. He would suffer no more talk of witches. Brom found his place under the eaves of the tavern, the Cock ‘n Hen. It was indeed deserted, the ghost moans of wind sucked through the gap in the back door and calling through an open window in the front. Brom saw no furniture or tables in the shadowy interior, but he could hear the scratching of rat claws on the floorboards. The building must have been abandoned recently if there was still food enough for the rodents.
The day was closing, curtains of rain drawing early dusk on Dirk-au-fen. The hills that cupped the village turned ever grayer in the dying light, save for a dark smudge like a cinder-burn on the slope beyond the church house. A great gush of mud seeped out of the hill, and parallel tracks cut through the tall grass.
“We will be fishing by torchlight, Vincarlo,” he said to his bull, who continued to snuff and chew at the mattock of grass. “If we’re lucky, we will catch more fish than flies.” But the giant spoke too soon, for the church emptied, the old man among the departing congregation. Brom was obliged to step out of the shadows of the tavern and hail Renois, calling attention to himself. The villagers stopped. They were thin, their stares dark in deep sockets.
Brom of Sindrum was accustomed to such stares, since his wayfaring took him far afield from his homeland. The giant was ever an outsider, but his gregarious nature endeared him to most folk. Being an outsider is not what broke the giant’s heart that light-forsaken day.
“A man of Sindrum?”
“Giant more like.”
“Is he really?”
“He couldn’t be.”
“Brom the Banesman of Chokefast!” The round-faced minister called out. A pit hollowed in the giant’s stomach. For the first time in the day’s ten-league hike, he felt weary. “You are Brom. I would give little heed to a bard’s twice-told tales, but you surely match the dragonslayer’s description.”
Brom did not speak. He would not aver the truth. In spite of the cold, the villagers stayed to listen. They drew nearer to the giant, closer to the legend. There was chatter of Chokefast the dragon, excited prattle about how baleful the beast was. Teeth as long as swords, they said. Eyes like volcanic pits, they said. Breath of brimstone. Scales of adamant. Temper of tyrants.
Each villager spoke a bloodier tale, their sickly faces glowing with dreadful radiance. Ravaged cattle. Virgin sacrifices. Fallen armies. Only the giant knew which was true and which was false, but he was most shamed by the words first spoken. Brom the Banesman of Chokefast. The scars on his left arm spoke tales of easier pains than this inglorious title.
Brom hung his head.
Renois sensed an opportunity for glory and loudly invited Brom to his home straight away. This provoked a round of envious murmurs. The giant was eager to leave, but the minister stayed him.
“Sir Brom, as but a country parson, I beseech you. Our town needs a champion. We are afflicted of late by the bog witch of Dirk-au-fen. Our pasturelands are waste. Will you help us, O knight?” The words were well-spoken, the minister’s posture humble.
“No.” Brom did not meet the minister’s gaze, pushing past him to follow the old farmer. Renois looked troubled, but he cared less for the good of the town than his own board.
“No, you are not a knight? Or no you shall not help us?”
“No to you, parson,” Brom replied coolly, not bothering to look over his shoulder. The mist scoured his face with cold droplets. His feet ached from trudging through the frigid mud.
The villagers were sullen and bewildered. The minister was confused as well, but Brom was not a knight errant. His wanderings had brought him far, all the way to the contest with Chokefast, but he was neither an errant nor a hero.
The minister saved face. “Mayhap you are not a knight, Sir Brom, but I do believe you are our champion. A witch could not withstand the likes of a dragonslayer. But I won’t detain you. The night falls. Winter is at hand, Wight of Sindrum.”
The minister departed with fair words but distorted mien, some malice or rage writhing in his chest. Brom marked it, but offered gentle words of parting. The villagers, satisfied, dispersed.
II.
Though the light was failing, the old codger would not relinquish the giant from their agreement. Brom protested that he had vegetables enough for stew, but Renois would hear nothing of it. He denounced the leeks and carrots as “rabbit’s munch” and insisted they go fishing in the swamp. Brom ceased arguing when he heard the old man’s stomach gurgle and churn in pain.
Renois’s farmhouse lay at the end of the main thoroughfare, out toward the common pasture, where the sallow grass had been chewed to stubble. Vincarlo was stabled in the barn. He nudged aside a donkey to partake of the brittle hay. Stubborn as the creature was by nature, the donkey would not challenge the longhorn. It stomped its feet and brayed, but sidled to make room for the bull. Renois stared long at Vincarlo, and Brom guessed he saw steaks, ribs, and offal all assembled, waiting for a butcher’s knife. It was Brom’s turn to urge haste.
“Hold on, giant, my fisher’s gear is in the house,” Renois huffed, leading them to the rough hewn wooden cottage. The fire burned low in the hearth, the room suffused in a red-orange glow that might have been cozy if it were not so cold. Renois looked to the bed in the corner, where his wife lay, and went first to the fireplace, feeding fresh logs to the smoldering coals. A snatch of brittle grass helped kindle the flame anew.
“Renny,” the woman said, her voice reedy. “It’s too cold, Renny. Where’s Jacquello? He’s supposed to tend the fire.”
“He’s gone now, you coot,” Renois said, quavering. The farmer looked into the flames, not meeting his wife’s gaze. She was pale, her gray hair lank with fever-sweat. Thin sheets were drawn up to her chin. Renois cast a furtive glance at Brom and knelt by his wife’s side, offering her quiet words of comfort. Brom remained silent. In his homeland, displays of affection were lavish, sorrow and joy bruited for all to hear. South of Sindrum, the keys to the heart were guarded more jealously. He allowed the farmer this moment of intimacy, as he kissed his wife and gathered the gear.
While the pasture was plenty soft from sodden soil and decaying grass, the grounds of the swamp were softer still. Here the ground was carpeted with a springy tangle of grass and moss that oozed water with each step. Though the giant’s boots were waterproof, he could still feel the cold of the water rising above his ankles. Before wading too deep, they came to the farmer’s johnboat, which was tied to the knotted knees of a cypress. Renois stepped in with sea legs, wobbling into place with grace. When Brom followed after, the johnboat sank under his weight, swamp water brimming at the sides, and Renois stifled gibbering sounds of panic. Brom was made to sit in the middle of the craft, lest it founder.
With Brom as the oarsman and Renois steering, they glided in between the cypress trees, a torch hung at the prow guiding them through the night blackened branches. The torchlight glittered on the dark waters. In the chill rain, neither insect nor nightbird spoke. Renois groused that he would scare the fish “if you keep plowing the oars so deep, giant” but they were grumbles of custom rather than real ire. Brom heard the admiration the farmer would not speak. The old man had never ridden a boat as swift as this.
Renois guided them to a resting spot in the shade of a swamp tree, just by a spit of land feathered in rushes. He explained that the catfish liked to graze among the roots of the rushes in just this spot. “I used to take my boy here, I did. But that was many a day ago,” he said wistfully.
“I am more accustomed to the mountain streams,” Brom admitted, “but I will see if I have any luck fishing the bayou.”
The giant had luck to spare. He was used to fish that swam through clear waters and baiting them with jiggling prey on sparkling hooks, but Brom learned quickly how to sound the deeper waters. He could not see the catfish that sifted the muddy bottoms, but he could feel them, each delicate vibration of the sinew fishing line trembling against his finger as they brushed the line or tasted the bait. His father would have been proud.
One, two, three catfish were hooked in turn, iron biting through their black and purple cheeks. Each he blessed, murmuring in the Sindrum tongue as he eased the hook out. Renois clubbed each with a rod and slid them into a bucket. Each time the rod struck a fish, the giant winced.
“Brom,” Renois said, finally addressing him by his name, “you are a finer fisherman than anyone I have met, excepting myself. Though I believe we will need a half-score more, if we’re to feed you.”
“Thank you, but I will not eat any. I am forsworn from eating any meat. To furnish your supper I fish, but I will fish no more.” Brom raised the pole and pulled in the hook.
“But for my poor wife,” the farmer pleaded, “I could still use one more. Lower the rod. Just one more.” Renois’s stomach croaked like a bullfrog.
The giant eased the rod down again and sat still, feeling for the faint vibrations of passing fish. Water lapped at the sides of the johnboat, and the treetops blew gently in the wind. The sky was a black ocean, where the stars had sunk into unfathomable depths.
“So you won’t eat any fish meat,” the farmer ventured. In the torchlight, Brom saw greed crook his lips into a sly grin. “Nor any meat. Not a chicken or goat. No beef, I reckon?”
The line trembled in Brom’s hand, but it was not time to set the hook. He waited.
“You mean, Vincarlo, farmer! No, I will not eat beef. For the bull is my friend, and I do not eat my friends. Are there many cannibals in your parts, Renois?”
The sour old man took this jest easy. Brom thought that by morning’s parting, the two may even be friends.
“I would not worry about being eaten here, Brom,” Renois said. “But if we did,” he laughed, “I’m sure we would eat for a fortnight.”
The pole bent, the bait taken. Brom pulled hard to set the hook, but the fishing rod did not lift. The giant pulled harder, and the rod bent into a bow, the line tight as fence wire.
“Have you hooked a root?” the farmer asked. The line went slack. The two searched the murk for a sign of their catch. Brom pulled in the line, but the bait and hook were gone.
A dark shape leaped from the water, snapping the dangling rod in half. Renois screamed in hoarse terror, “Scharrod. Devil take us, Brom, it’s the witch’s pet!”
The johnboat rocked in the waves kicked up by the reptilian tail that now sunk back into the depths. The torch swung, casting its light from the skeletal treetops to the shifting face of the waters.
“Renois, no one will believe me when I tell them what I caught,” Brom said, merriment twinkling in his eyes. “What a lunker, mate.”
The farmer was incredulous at the giant’s good humor. When the johnboat tipped once more, frigid water splashing over their legs, the old man screamed again. Brom laughed, and the farmer thought that they had somehow rowed into the first of the seven hells. This maniac giant of Sindrum would cackle all the way through the halls of death.
Scharrod surfaced, baleful yellow eyes glaring in the torchlight. Brom marveled that a gator should be so vigorous in the cold. The creature was twice the boat’s length, the toothy maw long enough to cross the bow in one bite. Brom rose, the craft trembling underfoot.
“A beastfriend eats no flesh, Scharrod,” the giant called, “but you are mistaken if you think you can eat me.”
The creature growled, mist shaking off his scaly back. Scharrod opened his jaws, rising to swallow Brom. Renois was sure he must be in hell or a nightmare. This could not be real.
With a meaty clap, Brom slapped the creature aside, the titan felled in a single blow. Scharrod crashed into a tree, and branches splintered. The reptile floated, stunned. Renois was paralyzed by fear and wonder. They were not dead. The boat had not foundered. Was Scharrod thwarted by bare hands?
Renois looked up at the smiling giant of Sindrum, and whispered, “Ironhand.” He trembled. More than a dragonslayer. More than a king.
Before the giant could respond, Scharrod attacked again, pulling Brom from the boat. So much water entered the johnboat that it began to sink, and Renois was compelled to bail it out. He caught glimpses of the giant wrestling with Scharrod, those hands prying the beast’s jaws apart. Renois could not stay, though his heart stung with venom. He could not die in this swamp or else he would leave his sick wife, Charie, to perish alone in their cottage. He bailed out as much water as he could and paddled back to shallow waters. It wasn’t until he reached the swampy shore that he realized he had lost all his fish, since he to used the fish bucket for bailing. He trudged home through the misty murk, hungry and forlorn.
Brom, who was plunged in black water, fighting the terror of Dirk-au-fen in darkness, was in much better spirits. The gator was a swift swimmer, but Brom caught the creature at every sally and lunge, his hands impervious to the rasp of leathern hide and piercing teeth. For he was indeed an Ironhand, and even Scharrod was no match for Brom’s terrible grip.
If a reptile is capable of rage, this creature was in a hellfire frenzy, thrashing desperately to kill his unyielding prey. Brom had no leverage to toss the beast, but he pummeled its sides and forced its jaws closed and held fast when it rolled. They fought until Scharrod’s energy flagged, the alligator’s fury overmastered by weariness. The swamp lizard struggled to the spit of land, dragging Brom behind. The giant could not see the ground, but he could feel his knees dragging up the muddy embankment.
“Stop!”
Brom shook the wet locks from his eyes. A woman in white glided from the darkness, only lit by a chamberstick. Though she passed through marshland, her dress was unstained, and Brom wondered if her feet ever touched ground. Her face was pale, her eyes dark, her mouth a cupid’s kiss. She was beautiful for a ghost-woman of the fen.
Brom thought she had rebuked Scharrod, but in truth, she rebuked him. “How dare you come into these waters and beat my poor pet? What manner of man are you?” Moon-wan hands rested on her hips.
He rolled off the beast’s back and stood. Scharrod did not turn back to bite him, yellow eyes trained on the interloping woman. Brom was sheepish. He was not trying to kill it, and he warranted the scaly terror scarcely needed protecting.
Sopping with black mud, bruised from wrestling the beast, and cold as death, he took a small bow. “I am Brom, my lady. And you must be the bog witch of Dirk-au-fen.”
III.
From the fairy tales his mother told him, Brom expected a witch to be an ugly, invidious crone, a harridan of so foul a mien and temper that she was as deadly in company as in witchcraft. The witch, who named herself Merissa, was as lovely as the moon on ocean waves, even lovelier when he saw her in full by the firelight of her hearth. Brom might have been tempted to think his mother a liar, but Merissa truly had the witch’s temper.
“What fool fishes a swamp at night?” She cried, leading him through the darkness. Her footsteps could not be heard. His boots splashed water up to his knees. “Are you listening, Brom the beast-fighter? I asked you a question.”
“I am not used to being yelled at, my lady,” Brom said, chastened.
“I am not your lady, sir.”
Brom thought that he had fought a better bout with Scharrod. An Ironhand was defter with his fists than his words. Of course, it was also hard to defend himself when Merissa spoke aright.
“Not just foolish, but unkind. It is cruel to fight with the animals. You call yourself beastfriend? The Banesman of Chokefast? Walloping my poor baby, Scharrod.
“The townsfolk call him a monster, you know. They are ever gossiping, whether the word be true or not. And I can say they have sullied my name many a time, but to say such hurtful things about my darling alligator? That is a hard thing to tolerate. He cannot speak a word in his own defense. He is but an animal. Maneater, they call him. Fah, I say! He has only eaten one or two.”
Her harangue was loud in the night’s silence. Brom plodded after her, dodging cypress branches that loomed out of the darkness. Even with the candlelight, he was not sure how she could navigate. Every tree looked the same. The mushy path was neither marked by cairns nor human footprints. Nevertheless, she guided him straight to her cabin, which stood on stilts above the sodden ground. Brom remembered the tale of a witch whose house walked on chicken feet. He hoped that Scharrod was her only pet.
The witch’s hut was not the lair of his mother’s tales. Drying herbs hung from the ceiling, not bones, and the air was spiced with their virid scent. Fresh picked flowers spread across a table, where a mortar and pestle stained with crushed petals rested. A cauldron bubbled with wine, not blood, as cinnamon sticks, orange peels, and cloves swirled in the simmering drink.
“I have been misinformed, Merissa. Witches have the most delightful of homes,” Brom chuckled.
“Oh hush, and sit by the fire,” she said, not unkindly. She took the coat from his shoulders and dangled it from a hook before the fire. He was pushed into a chair by the ingleside, and she jerked the boots off his feet without ceremony or word of warning. Her kindness was rough, and Brom had better accept it.
“Are you always so gentle with your guests, my lady?”
“Gentler. Put your feet by the fire,” she ordered. “If the cold does not take your toes, footrot might, so dry them.”
“Yes, I shall. I always abide the counsel of a medicine woman.”
Surprise passed over her face, but she did not respond. Merissa was not a ghost in this light, a flush of red rising in her cheeks, her skin the color of toffee. She drew off her wimple, releasing a wave of chestnut hair. Merissa busied herself about the cabin, and Brom pretended to watch the tousled locks of the fire more than the sweep of her hair. He was not so good at dissembling. She could see the heat in his cheeks, not just at his toe tips.
She toyed with him. “You called me a witch when we first met and proved to me your stupidity. How did you grow a brain so quickly that you now call me a medicine woman?”
Brom grinned. “I could say I know because of the herbs and the flowers, or because a witch would never invite me as a guest into her home, but the truth is that you behave as every nursemaid I have ever met. Sawbones and leeches have little patience for their patients, and a medicine woman’s the same.” He grew serious. “You knew of the footrot. Most rural doctors do not know that particular plague, since it is a soldier’s disease. You are surely learned.”
Quick as she had been to anger, she was slow to take this compliment. “You honor me, Brom of Sindrum,” she said tartly. “If only the men and women of the village held me in such esteem.”
“And how do they take you, Merissa?”
She stopped her tidying to grab a pair of saucers, then ladled steaming mulled wine from the cauldron into each cup. “Take this. You still need warming. I too could use a drink.”
She settled in a high-back wicker chair beside him, dropped her shoes, and kicked her stockinged feet up on the hearth, none so ladylike but ever so comfortable.
Merissa said, “I imagine you must be a traveler, Brom of Sindrum, if you have ranged so far from your homeland, so perhaps you already know the travails of a single woman of intelligence in a small town.”
Brom nodded but said nothing.
She continued. “The villagers come to me because of my herblore. The women come for medicine: remedies for the little ones when they are sick; tonics for their husbands and brothers and fathers too stubborn to come to me when they are ill; herbs for the sicknesses peculiar to women.
“Men only come for one thing – aphrodisiacs – and they will never admit it. Always they come before the light of morning or after the spent cinders of twilight, hoping to slink in and out before anyone notices them missing in the village. Whereas the women stay and speak with me, the men are always too sheepish, or too dog-stupid quiet, to stay longer than it takes them to hand me my payment.
“Since they will not acknowledge me in the village, no one must admit that they need me to nurse their aches and pains. No one admits the town is dying.”
Merissa ruminated and sipped her wine, the flush of its heat in her cheeks, her eyes as cold as the mist-shrouded backs of mountains. His crown was still wet, but the locks about Brom’s face were beginning to dry. His feet were warm. His heart ached.
“You say they will not admit the town is dying, but I heard in the church house that they accuse you of poisoning their crops. Why? If so many come to you for aid, why turn against you?” Brom’s sympathy flowed.
A cinder popped, and Merissa looked poised to fly in a rage, but she checked herself with a larger gulp of mulled wine. “The minister of the town hates me like no other. For all he preaches of the gods’ mercy, for all he says of peace between neighbors, he has no goodwill for me. He is the one who accused me of witchcraft, though I have no powers. He did not accuse me when I arrived in town, nor when I retreated to the fen to be closer to the plants and herbs that I turn to medicine. No, he took a disliking to me just as my fame was growing in the village. I think the poor country parson is jealous.” She smiled bitterly.
Brom’s head swam with the perfume of flowers and herbs, his heart kindled with the heat of good wine. He stretched his limbs, luxurious as a cat, and Merissa watched.
“I think this is more than jealousy,” Brom said. “What little I heard in the church house was enough to feel the town’s fear. Renois, my good shepherd, led me into the swamp, and he was afraid of Scharrod.”
“As they all should be,” she said. “As beastfriend, you should know that animals abide by nature’s laws, not humankind’s. Any defenseless creature that wanders into the swamp will be Scharrod’s sup. And any man of the village who would come to my hut and threaten me would have to face my pet’s teeth and temper.”
As he looked outside at the wintry darkness, Brom was reluctant to leave Merissa’s company and the warmth of her cabin. Nevertheless, he made excuses to her that he must return to the village. “Renois was kind enough to provide shelter for my bull, Vincarlo, and I owe him his due. I said I would help him catch dinner, and I fear I have not yet made good on that payment.”
When Brom stood, Merissa was quick to stand also, tipping her mulled wine to the floor in her haste. “You mustn’t leave. The trek is long and arduous, moreover perilous when you cannot see the way. There are other dangers besides Scharrod in Dirk-au-fen. Please stay.” She reached out to grab his hand and stroked his palm. It was the tenderest touch, softer than the good woman’s words.
He felt a wistful longing to stay, but he insisted. “I am only as good as my oath, Merissa. Since I see that you are well protected by Scharrod, I must return. Perhaps I can plead your case to the people.”
“No!” she cried, catching his arm, pulling him closer still. She was embarrassed by this outburst, so she let loose a little, but still held him from leaving. “Brom, I promise we will make good on your oath. We will catch ten fish if we must! But do not plead my case before Goodman Taurune and his congregation. There’s more I have not told you. Sit.” Her command was a whisper, but all the more forceful for its humble solicitude. He returned to his place by the fire.
“Goodman Taurune is the reason the town is dying. Mayhap you saw his light-forsaken steeple of flint. He wanted a better church, a tribute to the gods, so he mined into the sides of the hills.”
“I do not understand.”
“Neither do they,” Merissa said, lip curling. “They made no connection between the day the mine opened and the dying grass after. They do not know of the poisons that are released when delving for earth’s treasures. The village carried more than flint from the mine, and now they are sick.”
Brom realized the full import of her meaning. Not only did the village not see the evil it had wrought, the minister had used her as a scapegoat to cover his grievous mistake. Brom was slow to anger, but his blood bubbled and his thews hardened with tension. He wished to right this wrong immediately.
“You are kind to care, Brom of Sindrum, but I entreat you, do not go out into the fen this night. Stay with me until morning.”
“Alright, my lady. If you ask this of me, I will stay. I can sleep by this fire and…”
Merissa tutted. “Oh no, you shall not! You are in need of a bath. The tub is in the corner. I will bring you hot water.”
Brom looked around to see a brass claw foot tub, a strange luxury in so humble an abode. He wondered how something so heavy could have been transported over the marshy grounds of the swamp, but a question of more immediate concern came to his lips first.
“How am I to undress, Merissa? There is no privacy screen.”
She looked to him with a witch’s eyes and grinned, all pretense cast aside. “You are correct, Brom of Sindrum. There is no screen.”
IV.
The constant drizzle of rain ceased that night, and the clouds parted to let the moon glow upon the waters of the bayou. The nightbirds woke from their drowse and waited until the moon climbed to the highest point in the firmament to sing.
The cabin remained warm, even after the fire burned down to ash and charred logs. The pleasure of company ended in whispers and furtive confessions and silent laughter that rocked the bedposts. Brom showed grace and tenderness belied by the title of Ironhand. And it was only in the quiet and dark, before the moon showed her face and the nightbirds sang, that Brom permitted himself to sorrow for the love he lost.
Brom woke with a start to the sound of the cabin door closing. The morning was already well on, the hazy light of day filtering through the windowpane; rain had ceased, but the sky remained overcast. Merissa had a line hung with a half-dozen fish.
“You sleep late, Brom. I had enough time to catch you breakfast, lunch, and dinner before you tried to leave me.” He shrugged sheepishly. She may not have been a witch, but she read his mind aright.
Merissa would not allow the giant to wander through the swamp alone, insisting that she guide him at least to the village’s edge so he may return to Renois with his due. When he again suggested interceding on her behalf, she declined.
“If you have learned nothing of me, then remember this. I can take care of myself. I do not need your defending, Sir Brom, Not-a-Knight. In fact, last night proved you need me.”
Humbled, Brom followed her through the pathless tracts of Dirk-au-fen, ever marveling at her ability to wend through the wilds without sign or mark of direction. With the sky overcast, he could not reckon by the sun whether they went north, south, east, or west. She glided over sodden sump and mossy clump, her white dress never blotching with dirt or mud. Though longer of leg, he always remained behind her, so much of his effort spent fighting the muck, since he sunk deep with every step. His size proved a greater hindrance than help.
When they reached the edge of Dirk-au-fen, Brom saw that they were closer to the village center than Renois’s home. This might have been but a small mistake, if the townsfolk were not gathered in the village center with pitchforks and torches, hatchets and hammers, with Goodman Taurune leading the crowd. The farmers were surprised to see Merissa delivered into their midst, but the minister rallied them.
“See! We need not even hunt her down, because the gods have flushed her out of her fen. Step aside, O Banesman of Chokefast. This witch must speak for her crimes against the community.”
Brom surveyed the farmers, armed with humble tools meant to menace, not one martial weapon among them. Several sat astride plough-horses, not destriers or swift coursers. Despite the flames of hatred in their eyes, he saw clearly that the villagers were both hungry and sick, this rage the last signs of flagging strength.
“I do not see a jury, parson. I see a mob,” Brom called. “Leave. I see no reason for violence this day.”
He spotted Renois among the crowd, looking more bewildered than angry. He took up the fish and walked forward. “Ah! Renois! I, no, Merissa, has caught you this bounty and…”
He saw that Vincarlo was muzzled and harnessed by several villagers, who held implements of butchery aloft for the giant to see.
“Sir Brom, we needed to be sure you were not enchanted by the witch,” the minister explained. “Your steed can be returned to you after you step aside.”
Brom’s face hardened, but he continued past upraised blades and hammers to stand towering before Renois. The old codger quailed, fearful the giant might strike him, knowing that Brom had survived a battle with Scharrod and won with nothing but his bare fists.
“Here, friend,” Brom said, proffering the fish. “You gave Vincarlo shelter last night and provender enough for today’s journey. For this, I thank you. We are well met, Renois of Dirk-au-fen.”
The old man was so abashed that he could not meet Brom’s gaze at first. But his shame was overcome by gratitude, and he took his due. “Thank you, Brom of Sindrum. Thank you. Thank you.” Renois turned away as his eyes misted and left to return to his homestead and wife.
The minister would not allow this act of generosity to weaken the mob’s resolve. “Quick! Before she summons her great beast, seize her!”
Brom took action. He pushed farmers aside, flinging men into the mud to return to Merissa’s side. The farmers turned on him, jabbing pitchforks and swinging hatchets. He sidestepped the pitchforks, tines grazing his flesh, and snapped the wooden handles to splinters. Brom caught hatchets with his bare fists, the blades unable to bite through his flesh.
“What are you?” a young man asked, quaking, when the giant caught his axehead mid-swing. Brom answered by crumpling the iron blade like parchment.
Men rode by on their plough-horses and lashed Brom with whips. His shirt tore. His back bled. Careful not to hurt the horses, he waited until the horsemen returned to catch their whips as they lashed him, yanking the farmers from their saddles. Freed of their burden, the horses rode away from the battle.
Men piled onto Brom – five, ten, fifteen in a bunch – pummeling with mallets, cypress switches, and booted feet. The scrum brought Brom to his knees, if only for a moment, as he slid backwards in the mud, trying to hold back the onslaught. Fifteen was still not enough. One man’s slip gave the giant leverage to toss one body over his shoulder, pull another to the ground, shove a face, punch a gut, kick a knee, break a nose, and beat and beat until the farmers knew what game they played. For Brom of Sindrum, the reluctant Banesman of Chokefast, the Ironhand triumphant, was laughing, both rows of gleaming teeth showing with a joy more terrible than ferocity, more deadly than anger. By the gods, Brom was enjoying himself, and the villagers were afraid.
Though the minister held a torch aloft to lead the crowd, he was not taking part in the melee. Indeed, he was rattled by the crowd’s struggle to subdue a single man, even if he was a giant of the northern marches. Taurune grabbed the bridle of a plough-horse shorn of its rider and took the saddle. He would ride down the witch-woman himself.
Brom saw the minister, but he could not fully disengage from the battle to come to Merissa’s aid. Thinking quickly, Brom leaped from the press and sprinted to Vincarlo, who was now guarded by a single man. That farmer fled when the giant bore down upon him. Brom unloosed the bull from the harness, tore off the muzzle, and mounted.
“Ride, Vincarlo!”
In later days, the men and women of Dirk-au-fen would recall Brom’s ride as if in a dream. The longhorn tore through the crowd. Those who failed to dodge or duck or scatter from the broad horns were bashed, stabbed, hurled to the ground and left to bleed. In later days, even the injured would only remember the cause of their scars dimly, because a bull rider in battle is a rare sight, but magic is rarer still.
Though Merissa had told him that she could take care of herself, Brom was shocked to see the minister unhorsed in a flash of icy blue light. The townsfolk who could stand shielded their eyes and stood in awe. The flash let off smoke that smelled of wintergreen and ash, and the air boomed as with thunder.
“I thought you said you did not have any powers!” Brom cried. “I thought you were a healer.”
“I am,” Merissa called back. “I am an expert in herblore…who knows a few things about the elemental forces of nature.” She shrugged.
Since she was not helping her case, Brom dropped from the bull’s back, strode through the stunned crowd, and hauled the minister to his feet. Loud enough for all to hear, he denounced the parson.
“Goodman Taurune, you holy fool, what did you mine from those hills? Do you not see the poison you loosed from the earth?! Look at your fields. They are waste. And all because of your greed. Most despicable of all, you have blamed one of your parish for your crimes. Treacher. Knave. Scoundrel. Wretch.” With each harsh word, Brom shook the parson, until the goodman was in tears. Then the villagers knew the truth, for the minister could not speak with conviction in his own defense though he had the host of the gods bent to his prayers.
Brom had done his part, and now it was Merissa’s turn to prescribe a remedy. She described what foulness had seeped forth from the earth, how to plug up the mine, and with what herbs she could heal them. The villagers hearkened, and any anger they had drained away. Brom could not hold their changeful nature against them. The people here were desperate from hunger and sickness. With good guidance, they could be made well and could feed themselves again.
While no one was looking, the parson slunk off like a spurned mongrel. He departed from Dirk-au-fen alone.
The giant listened to Merissa’s speeches as he arranged the gear strapped to Vincarlo. Nothing had been stolen, not even the terrible burden wrapped in sackcloth. Part of Brom wished it had been stolen so he could be rid of it, but he knew that it was his to bear. Dirk-au-fen had suffered enough of poison and discord.
When the crowd dispersed, he addressed the witch and healer. “Merissa, my journey is long and often lonely, and I have many leagues still to travel. Seldom do I meet one as incisive as wise, as strong as gentle-hearted, and true in every word indeed. I could use a friend for kindness and counsel. Dear lady of the fen, will you join me in my travels?” He held out his hand, hand of iron, hand of companionship.
She touched his palm gently, holding his hand and his gaze, but she declined. “Despite everything, I still love the people here. Dirk-au-fen is my home, and I must repair it as I am able. There is sickness to heal, and wounds that only words can mend. I cannot go with you, Brom.” She smiled. “Instead, you will have to return to me.”
Brom sighed. “I know. Your people need you.”
Merissa looked ready to disagree, but she did not. They were her people. She could not shrug that destiny. She would lead them.
“Besides, you have a friend already,” she said, patting Vincarlo on the flank. The bull lowed and bowed his head so she could scratch his tufted crown.
When the giant mounted Vincarlo, Merissa delayed him. “Do promise to come back, Brom of Sindrum. Tell me this is not the last time I see you.”
“If fate wills it, I shall. Well met, Merissa of Dirk-au-fen.” He smiled like the sun on the shore of the Cleft Sea and departed.
The giant rode out of town atop his bull, taking the low road through the vale past the swamp. The clouds parted and day poured through, flooding the country with light and warmth. The land was ready for healing. Merissa got to work, and Brom passed from the pale borders of Dirk-au-fen into legend.
©May 2023, Vincent Wolfram
Vincent Wolfram‘s work has appeared in The Bleed Error, The Dark Door, and Camp Slasher Lake vol. 1. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.