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Winner of the 3rd place in the 2014 Literature Competition
Two
burly men pulled a ramshackle farm cart over the muddy soil, its wheels
creaking every few seconds. A moldering pile of corpses strained against
the confines of the cart, nearly teetering onto the ground. An older man
wearing the tattered vestments of a cleric of Morr was striking a slightly bent
fire poker against an upended cooking pot. ‘Bring out your dead!', he said
after every clang of his improvised bell.
Every so often the cart stopped so that another unmoving passenger could be dragged aboard. Every last one of the deceased, whether they were high-born or low-born, saint or sinner, would be dumped into a massive hole in the ground which only the most charitable nun could call a grave. But what was perhaps the most depressing aspect of this grim picture was how mundane the priest's cries sounded; as if asking hardworking peasants and affluent noblemen to haul the corpses of their friends and family into the streets and onto a farm cart to be dumped in a mass grave was routine. But the old man couldn't be faulted for that, for in the village of Givry bringing out your dead had indeed become routine.
Only
three weeks ago Givry had been the very model of a Brionnian settlement: white houses
with not a spot of dirt on them, lawns with meticulously trimmed hedges and
colourful flowers, and with clean streets leading to the village square, with
in the middle the piercing tower wherefrom
Galadum's family had ruled for three generations. Of course there were no
peasants actually living within the village; they would have sullied it with
their mere presence. Instead the low-born lived in a nameless shantytown nearby, which
was hidden from view by a slim strip of wide oaks so that none had to gaze upon
the squalid shacks. This left Givry to the nobility and the merchants, artisans, servants and other peasants who knew how to keep the mud out of their hair. Unfortunately this
meant that very few houses were inhabited, but what was important was that the
village looked like a slice of heaven.
That
had all been before the Blazing Pox, which had struck down more than four-fifths
of the population. As was to be expected it struck first in the shantytown, but
sadly it had not stopped there. Now Galadum had been left as the sole survivor
of his family line, as well as one of the few nobles remaining in Givry. The
auburn-haired youngster had been trust into the role of lordship before he
could even begin his errantry tour. In the family chapel he had vowed that as
soon as the current crisis was over he would hunt down the insidious architects
of this plague. Not only as retribution for the dead of Givry, but because he
couldn't consider how a nobleman could rule justly without experiencing the
perils of errantry. This quest would prove him as worthy of his title and his
father's name, if the Lady was willing.
There
were however two things he needed to do before he could begin his quest. First
he needed to appoint a competent steward to rule in his absence, for it could
take months or even years before he found the culprits. Right now the most
suitable candidate for that position was standing beside Galadum, looking
alongside him at the improvised hearse. Together they were patiently awaiting
the second person who would be indispensable for the continued safety of his
fiefdom.
The
soon-to-be steward Odo was quite fit by low-born standards, with a bit of meat
on his bones and capable of standing up straight when the situation required
it. But to his dismay the Creeping Crippler, another of the many plague's that afflicted the fair dukedom of Brionne,
had taken his right arm a few years ago. To his family he had become more of a
hindrance than a help, and so Odo had decided to leave the farm and make his
fortune in Givry. The bitterness in his voice told Galadum that the decision
had been made for him, but it mattered little. The former farmhand had a good
instinct for organization, and one way or another always got the job done. Not
everyone was happy with how the ‘Lame Goat' ordered them around, especially the elderly
chamberlain Eustace. While he had a strange taste in moustaches, Eustace had
served the counts of Givry faithfully for over two generations. He was dead now, his face
nearly scratched to the bone in his desire to stop the painful itch of the
Blazing Pox. Odo had taken his place by Galadum's side, who in turn had made it
perfectly clear that the commands of this particular lame goat were to be
obeyed as if they were his own, in those exact words. In these times, results
mattered more than some ruffled feathers.
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