Boots Chapter 3

Boots awoke with the first glimmer of grey light filtering in through the window. Having sobered up a few hours into his captivity, he had passed a restless remainder of the evening, unable to ignore the cramped and uncomfortable quarters. With the light came the discovery of some buckets, one held somewhat clean but somewhat stale water. He gulped at it greedily, feeling it cool his hungry and queasy stomach. He made himself stop when he remembered Siggu would likely be waking soon, with more need of the water than he. 

Outside was quiet, then it was split by the high-pitched whistle of a morning songbird. This made him think of the birds that nested in the trees around his garden, and the garden made him think of his mother.  

And with that, he was awake with the full knowledge of what had happened yesterday. 

Footsteps sounded outside. There was no mistake; they were approaching the inn. It was still so early, barely light. He heard voices murmuring outside. He clenched his fists, trying to take steadying breaths and squeeze the possibility of tears from his eyes. He would never forgive himself if he cried and blubbered like a child. He was a man, and he would pay the price. The footsteps came closer, it sounded like only one set. Instead of making their way to the door, they stopped in front of the window. 

“Psst. Siggu? Boots?” 

“Tafner?” Boots asked. 

Tafner’s face peered in at him. She looked wild, as always, but there was something tame in the lines of her face. Her eyes rested on Siggu’s sleeping form. 

“Is he alright?” she asked anxiously. 

“Slept like a baby. I’m doing fine, if you wanted to know.” 

Her eyes darted to Boots. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never knew he was this jealous. And you had to be so damn noble about everything. Why did you do that?” she asked. 

“And let him take the credit?” Boots asked with a weak smile. 

“Men are idiots. I shouldn’t even give you this,” Tafner responded. She thrust a cloth bundle through the bars. Boots grabbed it quickly, identifying the smells of baked dough and cinnamon. 

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “What do you think will happen?” 

Tafner bit her lower lip, she looked contrite and very pale. 

“I don’t know. I’m not even supposed to be out. Mother and father have locked me in my room. I guess I just don’t think.” 

“At least you’re outside the bars,” Boots commented. Then instantly regretted it as tears sparkled in Tafner’s eyes. He immediately opened his mouth to apologize but Tafner started in alarm. 

“Someone’s coming, and the guard said I was to give you this and leave immediately,” she said in a hushed voice, “I’ll be missed. I’m sorry, tell Siggu, please. I’m so sorry.” 

And her feet sprinted out of sight as she made her way home. Boots sat with a sigh and opened the parcel she had brought. Two buns, sticky with cinnamon and dotted with raisins sat inside. He inhaled the delicious scent before taking an enormous bite. Maybe he should eat more slowly to enjoy the meal, but he wasn’t going to risk being taken away before it was finished. 

The smell roused Siggu, who cracked one eye open and slid his body further away from the weak light spilling in through the small window. 

“Here, Tafner brought these for us. There’s water in the bucket,” Boots said. 

Siggu nodded weakly and crawled over to the bucket, sticking his entire face in, he drank deeply. Boots tried to decide if this was enough to prevent him from taking another drink to wash down his unexpected breakfast. 

“What have I done?” Siggu asked. He was slumped beside the bucket, the water not quite reviving him enough to be upright. 

“You’ve gotten us both in trouble,” Boots answered. 

“You hit the target, didn’t you,” it was a statement, not a question. 

“Correct. And now I’ll accept the consequences,” Boots said. 

Siggu turned at an uncomfortable angle so that his head was pressed in the dirt on one side but he could look at Boots as he spoke. 

“Don’t be stupid, Boots. I hit the lord. I’m in trouble either way. Just let me take the punishment for the target and the insult. There’s no sense in both of us being dragged off,” he said. 

It made an awful type of sense. Boots could just say he was lying to defend his friend, after all, Boots hadn’t really done anything wrong that had been seen. But he had trouble throwing Siggu to the wolves. 

“Do you think your father will be able to talk to the lord? Didn’t they have dinner together last night?” Boots asked, the thought having occurred to him. Was this not the sort of connection Balert was always bragging about? Siggu groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“He isn’t here. He ran off on some unexpected errand after dinner. I wasn’t supposed to go to the festival, and he would have kept me home and we would have had a big fight about it, but his leaving let me come anyway.” 

“Oh,” Boots said. He wondered that both Meranin and Balert would have reservations about the festival, and that both would be gone this very night. He noticed that Siggu had cracked one eye open to look at him. 

“What is that smell?” he asked. 

“Tafner brought breakfast,” Boots said, holding out one of the buns. 

Siggu turned a shade of grey and turned his head to the side. 

“Please get that away from me,” he responded. 

“Are you sure. You may want it in a bit.” 

“Just eat it. I don’t even want to smell it.” 

Boots contemplated the bun and his options. If he was about to be drawn further into this mess by Siggu’s stupidity, then he felt completely justified eating the bun. It was payment of a kind for his pains. Halfway through the bun he stopped, feeling suddenly sick. He understood why Siggu did not want to eat. Just what would “his pains” entail? 

“Siggu,” Boots asked, “what do you think will happen to us?” 

Siggu was silent for a moment, then spoke, his face still averted and his voice wavering with a hangover and fear. 

“We’re lucky here in Holding, in my opinion. We don’t have any royalty particularly involved, our lands are our own, there isn’t much to squeeze out of us, but we have enough to live. Magister Yuggen has us pay what is fair to the Crown, and we go about our lives.” 

“And the new king is trying to change that?” 

“He is. He’s trying to redraw lines through the kingdom and parcel off land to the estates of nobles,” Siggu said. “Then make new laws to try and take more money from the people. It isn’t really that simple…but that’s basically it.” 

“But he can’t just do that? Can he?” Boots asked. 

Siggu rolled over with an unhappy smile and looked up at the ceiling. 

“Of course he can. Many argue that he shouldn’t. And it has made people very angry to think he might. Mostly villagers like us but – you’d be surprised – there are some nobles who…well they are rare. But on our travels, when trading, my father and I have become very careful what we say and who we say it to, and who we are seen to be trading with.”    

Boots leaned back against the wall, feeling bewildered. He thought about how difficult it had been to gain the fields he had, and how hard he worked to keep what he had. It made his chest feel tight with some unnamed feeling to think that a king may, with a few strokes of ink, give it all to someone else. 

“Yeah,” Siggu said, looking over at Boots and interpreting his expression, “just like that. And there are some places where the people are already more angry than shocked. And some lords that are more greedy than gracious. News doesn’t always make it this far, but there have been some problems.” 

“What do you mean?” Boots asked. 

“We heard tell,” Siggu said quietly, “that someone refused to slaughter their fattest pig for the banquet. I heard they dragged his body behind the cart and hung it up in the next town. And I’m not talking about the pig.” 

The spicy cinnamon flavour in Boots’ mouth was overtaken by the acrid bile that rose in the back of Boots’ throat. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Boots said. 

Siggu reached out an arm and pushed an empty bucket towards Boots. 

When Boots was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, threw some hay in the bucket to keep down the smell, and slouched against the wall. Siggu was still lying on the ground, one hand draped over his eyes and the other sort of wrapped across his stomach. He didn’t say anything, but Boots could tell by the tightness in his jaw that he was not asleep. 

“Where do you think your father went?” Boots asked. 

Boots did not like Balert, but it seemed like he was a man who may be able to deal with nobles in their terms. 

“I don’t know,” Siggu said, his answer tight. “Do you know where your mother is?” 

“Out,” Boots said. “She left last night. I – I don’t think she expected to be back until later today or early tomorrow.” 

“I am sure you are aware of this, but Boots, keep your temper,” Siggu advised, lifting his arm away from his face enough to see Boots nod. 

Although, in his current state of mind, Boots did not think he could muster a coherent thought, no less anger. His shame at what he had done chased in a circle with his fear of the consequences that he would suffer. He had overstepped himself, he had risked his life, Colin’s life, Siggu’s life and his mother’s and Tafner’s happiness for mere seconds of triumph. 

His mother’s warnings sounded in his mind, pushing the shame deeper. 

Even if, by some miracle, these crimes were in some way forgiven, would Fauna still want him? Would any woman? Or had he tainted the rest of his life with these actions – branded the way a criminal sometimes was. Marked for life, never to be trusted, never to succeed. What had he done? 

It was with these thoughts whirling through his mind that Boots stumbled to his feet, tugging at Siggu to do the same, when the men came for them. Siggu and Boots, led by a guard each, were escorted from the cellar and brought, bedraggled and squinting, into the pre-dawn light. Colin’s father, Tale, Yuggen the village magistrate, the dark haired noble, and some guards waited outside. 

The noble and his guards looked angry. Yuggen, old and frail, peered at them from behind his spectacles, his hands clutched a bound book and a wooden case. Tale kept his face absent of emotion and avoided Boots’ eyes. Boots remembered the time one of Colin’s sisters had fallen from a tree and Boots had run to fetch Tale while Colin sat with his unconscious sister. Tale had that same drawn, unflinching look on his face as he followed Boots through the woods, as if by not reacting he could delay reality from taking hold without his permission. 

As they emerged from the doorway, Bridda rode up on horseback. Again, Boots’ arms were being twisted behind him and he had to angle his neck uncomfortably to watch everyone. Although she had her sword at her side and a posture of control, Bridda wore no uniform. If her clothes were a uniform, it did not match what the other guards wore. 

“We have the situation under control,” the large guard beside the lord said to Bridda, “you don’t need to be here.” 

“Do any of us?” She asked mildly, then looked pointedly past the guard at the noble. 

“My lord,” she said brightly, “even though we agreed on a plan for today, you did not send a messenger telling me that you were going to begin so early. You must have forgotten.” 

“I did not forget,” the noble said tensely. 

“Well, I’m here now, where are we going?” she asked in a voice that was strangely polite and detached. 

“We will return to the field from yesterday’s competition,” the noble said in a tone that was both imperious and falsely jocular, “to better remind these lads of their wrongdoing.” 

“And have we ascertained that yet?” she asked, “their wrongdoings? I thought that was our first objective.” 

Her tone was still mild but there was a hint of a challenge there, like a chill in the morning air, just enough to make the back of your neck shiver. 

There were some mutterings from the guards in uniform that Boots had come to think of as belonging to lord Narosh. Tale seemed to be trying to read the air between Brida and the noble. Boots’ was trying to look around but his head and neck were aching, from the uncomfortable angle. He broke out in a sweat that dried to cold prickles in the early morning air, his head dropped between his shoulders. Beside him Siggu was not faring any better. 

Boots was surprised to hear Yuggen’s quavering voice break the silence. 

“Might I offer, again, the use of the village hall. It is more comfortable, and we could all stay there and await the return of captain Burig to oversee the proceedings.” 

“A good idea,” Bridda said. 

“Absolutely not!” the noble said, overriding Bridda’s response. “I do not need anyone to ‘oversee’ the proceedings. The captain is here to serve me, not the other way around. It would do everyone well to remember that.” There was an uneasy silence, then he snapped, “and stop referring to them as the ‘proceedings’, this is a trial and I have called it. To the field.” 

The village seemed strangely empty as they made their way through. To be sure, some curious onlookers were around with the pretence of going about their daily tasks with bowed heads. But most had stayed indoors, not wanting to be witness to, or participant in, what may unfold. Boots was torn as to whether or not Colin would be present. If he was to never return to the village, for whatever reason, he would be sad to not have seen his friend. But Tale’s staid face implied that Colin would stay wherever he had been told to stay. Boots wondered suddenly if Colin had told his father everything and how Tale planned to use the truth if he had it. 

They were loaded onto an open cart in silence. Everyone mounted horses and a guard took the reins of the cart. They bumped along the pathway, Boots tried to keep his pounding head from jarring too much with every bump. Siggu looked grey and pained, his head bouncing from side to side, his eyes closed against the orange sunlight creeping over the horizon. 

They followed the track past the field Colin and Boots had taken refuge in yesterday. Boots looked from the field to the woods directly opposite and felt a chill at his stupidity. Had he and Colin been so arrogant that they had thought no one would connect them with the arrow when they had merely crossed the road to eat bread on a wall? And yet no one seemed to have put all the pieces together. Perhaps the noble was so filled with arrogance he really did not recognize Boots from the festival as the simple-looking farm lad from earlier in the same day. Boots was relieved that the red-bearded captain was not present, he was sure that man would have placed Boots at the field, and drawn some quick conclusions on the matter. If Bridda, the commander, had any idea she did not show it. 

The cart and riders left the path and pulled onto the grassy field. Boots’ heart lurched as they entered the clearing from yesterday’s competition. And yet, there was nothing in that field that could link him to the supposed crime besides the arrow he shot. And even then, there was a good chance many of the competitors had an arrow fletched by Boots on their bow string that day. Boots made arrows for sale and trade during the long, winter months. He recalled drunkenly boasting that he had made the arrow that was shot and could identify it on sight. He decided he would no longer do so. 

When they arrived at the field the sun had risen enough to burn all but the lowest layer of morning fog from the clearing. But Boots still felt cold deep in his bones. In the surrounding trees, the mist still hung like gauze from the branches, pooling between the trunks. Boots imagined he could see the somber faces of the gods he had such difficulty believing in watching him from between the trunks. Their eyes weighing his soul against the meager offerings he had left them over the years at his mother’s urging. He was certain that the balance did not sway in his favour. 

Boots felt a hollowness in his heart at the thought of his mother. When would she return to find out what he had done? Today? Tomorrow? If something terrible happened to him – he couldn’t finish the thought. He let his throbbing head overtake his thoughts. The cart halted and the guards pulled Boots and Siggu on to the grass. A heavy hand pressed on Boots’ shoulder. 

“Kneel,” a gruff voice said. 

Boots sank to his knees, feeling tears spring into his eyes, blurring the blades of grass. The clearing was shaded by the ring of trees, and where he knelt the grass was still wet with chilly drops of dew. At the edge of his sight, the magister put his bag down at his feet to retrieve a large scroll and wooden box of writing utensils. He also produced a small folding stool to sit on. 

Boots’ thoughts went back to what Siggu had said earlier. That Yuggen, their magistrate, protected them by being loyal to the king. But what was he doing to protect Boots now? Nothing, it seemed. It looked like Yuggen was not prepared to endanger himself to defend the villagers he had known since they had been born. 

“On this day,” Yuggen said in a loud, unsteady voice that showed his advanced age, “on the waning of the moon of Freya’s spring of the year of the Black Chestnut, under the watchful eye of king Harald the first, shielder of the people, bringer of…” 

Yuggen’s voice droned own, with pauses when he lost his spot and restarted. 

“Are you quite done?” lord Narosh said, sharply cutting Yuggen off. 

“My lord?” Yuggen quavered, blinking up in confusion. 

“This isn’t the high court. This is a shit-stained field in a village so small I could spit across it. As lord of this land, I say we move on.” 

Bridda was quick to reply, “and as a commander in the King’s Sword, I say that justice must be meted out equally to all, regardless of rank or circumstances under the procedures as set out by the king himself and not those convenient to that attending lord – whether he holds the land or not. And currently, you do not.” 

The warning was clear in Bridda’s tone. Even Boots heard it, as he stared at the grass through blurry, unshed tears. Narosh, lord of Holding, that must not be true. Isn’t that what she meant? Boots prayed that Bridda allowed Yuggen to drone on for an eternity. After a tense silence, Yuggen picked up the thread of his introduction and did go on for some time with much muttering from the noble. But eventually Yuggen’s introduction wound down to an ending when he said, 

“Boots and Siggu of village Holding are held trial for the following crimes.” Here Yuggen paused, and lord Narosh spoke up. 

“These two young men have spoken and acted against the gods, sullying a ceremony held in their honour with dishonest and prideful actions. They have hidden themselves with weapons, demonstrating an attempt to injure or harm innocent villagers and nobles and placing them in danger,” the noble said. 

More silence with only the scratching of Yuggen’s pen across the page. The dew had sunk in through Boots’ pants and his whole body felt cold with it. What Boots had feared last night had become truth. The foolish prank now had a sinister edge. But the crimes were not done. 

“The accused also struck those of noble blood and accosted their guards with an intent to harm. A crime punishable by death,” he finished. 

Boots’ heart suddenly felt like a hammer pounding his chest, he tried to breathe but the air did not want to stay in his lungs, his vision splotched over with dots. Punishable by death. The words repeated in his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else. Someone was talking, Tale maybe, Boots could hear Siggu whispering a prayer under his breath. 

The voices were arguing, Tale’s constricted tightly with anger and fear, Bridda’s voice rose in command and it seemed to create a moment of reasonable discussion. Boots tried to listen to what was being said, afraid but desperately hoping for something, anything, to turn the tide. He glanced at Siggu whose ashen face was bowed, his eyes closed and shoulders stooped. He looked to be without hope. 

“Do these men have anything to speak in their defense?” Bridda asked. 

Boots was unsure if he should speak, but Tale broke in, his voice tense. 

“There is no proof that these two boys,” he stressed the word a bit, “were in a position to cause harm during yesterday’s ceremony.” 

“They confess to have hidden in the woods with bows and arrows within shooting distance of the crowd,” the noble responded quickly, “they confessed as much last night to a crowd of people.” 

“One of these boys made a drunken claim, the other spoke up to try and diffuse the situation. Hardly a confession. And still baseless without any proof.”  

Tale was keeping control, but Boots felt the worry edging his voice. 

“I have questioned the guards. We are confident that they were not seen in the crowd at yesterday’s competition,” the noble said. 

“I am certain if thorough questioning of the villagers was done, these two could be identified as present at yesterday’s proceedings,” Tale answered, “or perhaps elsewhere in the village.” 

“I am certain of that as well. Of course, a village would move to protect its own,” there was a slight sneer in the noble’s response. 

“Are you accusing an entire village of being willing to falsify evidence?” Tale asked somewhat sharply. Yuggen’s pen had stopped scratching. Boots imagined everyone eyed the black haired noble. Tale continued, his voice calm again. “With all due respect, my lord, if we are to travel that route, then the claims of your party and guards of having not seen these two boys present is brought equally into question.” 

The noble’s steps moved in Tale’s direction, 

“Councilman or not, if you think you can -” 

“Enough! The man speaks true, my lord,” Bridda said. “You cannot hold an entire village under suspicions any more than he can accuse you and your party of fabricating information. The point is well made. I believe many points have been well made this morning,” she said with heavy emphasis. 

“Then what satisfaction will I have for my repayment?” The noble snapped, “I have been assaulted, embarrassed and disrespected and blasphemy has occurred. I cannot allow the gods and royal representatives to be so shamed by common folk. Would you have it said that the King’s Sword were so easily outwitted by farmers?” 

If the lord had hoped to appeal to Bridda’s pride he was disappointed. 

“Hand me control of this situation and we shall find out just how well the King’s Sword fares against these farmers,” she responded quickly.  

Boots ears pulsed with his heartbeat. As he heard the reply he wondered if that was something he wanted to have happen or not. There was a struggle here, between the lord and this Bridda woman. The noble seemed ready to immediately crush Boots and Siggu with his wealth and status. Bridda seemed to think he should at least follow the rules before he did it. 

Boots’ throat was tight with tears and panic. He found himself making promises to the gods in a bargain for his life. Why did Tale and Yuggen not speak? Where was Balert? Where was his mother? 

“I have my own guards here,” the lord said. 

The guards holding Boots and Siggu tightened their grips, as if to make a point, causing both of them to squirm and give a little cry of pain. 

“Magister,” the lord continued, “please take note of the crimes that I accuse them of and the guilt herein.” 

“My lord, it was my understanding that guilt had yet to be determined!” Tale broke in, sounding desperate. Narosh spoke over Tale, laying out his charges and giving the argument no notice. 

“First this one.” 

Boots took that to mean him, since he was muscled forward. 

“The lesser charges are of blasphemy. Disrespect for the gifts of the king on a feast day to the gods. The greater charge is plotting to assassinate a lord, an envoy from the king.” 

“That was never what was meant,” Boots said, speaking for the first time. His own protest was drowned out by arguments from both Tale and Bridda. Yuggen’s thready voice inquired after details. 

“First,” the lord yelled, “the punishment for theft!” 

The guard behind Boots’ grabbed his arm and pulled it outwards to lay it on the cart. Boots yelled in response and tried to pull away. He knew the punishment for theft was to lose a hand. 

He could not sit and hope that bowing his head in shame would buy him mercy, he would fight to free himself, he would die before they let them take his hand. He heard Siggu join in, begging to take him instead, swearing that Boots was innocent. 

Tale shouted something and his voice was cut off abruptly, Bridda’s voice was raised in angry tones. 

“Do not draw your sword at me, commander. Or we will have cause for another trial,” the lord’s voice seemed to both taunt and warn. 

“Do not harm him!” Bridda called. She grunted, then there were more grunts, possibly from others. 

The guard’s strong grip encircled his wrist, Boots pulled away, he made a sound that was somewhere between a cry and a yell. There were grunts and shuffling thuds from around him. Someone fell into the guard and holding him and jostled everything. 

“Do it now!” the Narosh yelled. 

“Stop!” A voice commanded. 

Boots had only time to register the voice as his mother’s before a searing pain enveloped the end of his arm. He screamed and pitched forward, his hair a tangle in the green grass, blood pooling in the earth from his wound. 

He squinted in the direction his mother’s voice had come from. 

Meranin in the clearing, the sun rising behind her. As all heads turned to look, she was a dark silhouette enveloped in a golden mist that shone through the backdrop of trees. Then the sun slid upward and she was only a woman again. The clearing launched into confusion. 

Siggu swore loudly and openly, calling Boots’ name and cursing the noble. Lord Narosh protested the interruption of his due justice and hurled accusations at Bridda and everyone else present. There were a few thudding sounds, and Bridda’s voice was full of warnings for both the lord and the guards. 

Boots heard the voices and saw flashes of movement, but ultimately tried to bury the experience in his mind even as he was consumed by the fiery pain at the end of his arm. Tale tried to calm Siggu, address Boots’ mother and lift Boots’ prone form all at once. Bridda was in a scuffle with another guard, Boots heard a smart smack and a few grunts before being moved by Tale caused stars to burst in his vision. Boots felt the ground trembling beneath him, someone was approaching on horseback accompanied by an angry voice cursing loudly. 

“- and in the name of the all the gods -” the cursing ceased, and the voice began snapping orders, 

“For Wodan’s sake, someone help that man staunch that boys bleeding. Stand down, Narosh, now, or your regrets will be many. And young man,” he turned to Siggu, “I suggest that you silence your tongue.” 

Siggu’s mouth snapped shut, the rest of the people in the clearing moved to obey as Captain Burig dismounted and crossed the field to stand before Boots’ mother, 

“Madam?” He said in a peculiar voice. 

She stood with her arms tightly crossed over her chest, shoulders pulled back in defiance. She did not look at Boots, who lay on the ground, a piece of rope and cloth being tightened around his wrist. Her eyes were narrowed in accusation, and her piercing look settled on the orange-bearded man. 

“Tell your little lordling I would have a word with him,” she said in a flat voice. 

“On what grounds do you propose to be so bold?” the lord asked, stepping forward. 

“Much more solid ground than yours, I assure you,” she responded with certainty, her eyes never leaving the captain’s face. 

And for some reason, Narosh did not move any closer. 

“Do you intend to let my son bleed to death at my feet, or will you hear what I have to say?” she asked. 

Her voice had a touch of iron to it. Captain Burig, stepped over to the lord and murmured something in his ear. The lord’s face registered confusion and disbelief that he quickly masked. On the ground, Boots squeezed his eyes shut. Amidst the swirl of pain and darkness clamouring in his mind he imagined his mother would suffer for his crimes as well. It would all be his fault. 

The noble and the captain stepped forward to meet with Boots’ mother. She moved little, her voice stayed too low to hear, but the anger was clear on her face. Lord Narosh stalked away, his head bowed angrily, and he gestured for his guards to follow him. The captain spoke a few more words that caused Boots’ mother to frown severely. 

“You will do no such thing,” she said angrily. 

“Meranin, this is beyond even you,” the captain responded with his own angry tones. It should have occurred to Boots to wonder how the captain knew his mother’s name so quickly, but he was too much in shock to register. 

“Mother?” he asked, feebly. 

“Keep quiet,” it was Tale. Boots realized Tale was sitting on the ground with Boots, keeping Boots’ injured arm propped up against his shoulder. To keep the blood from spilling out, Boots realized in a hazy way. 

“I am so sorry Boots. I did not think it would – I am so sorry,” Tale said, his voice thick with emotion. “Had I known that lord was so – Boots. Keep your eyes open. Stay awake, stay awake.” 

Boots cast a bleary eye over the field, taking in details that would swim through his thoughts later. Bridda with a smear of blood across her knuckles that she had wiped haphazardly on her tunic, she was staring down one of the royal guards who was holding a cloth over his bleeding nose. Siggu hunched on the ground looking pale and sick. The uptight form of the noble and his guards, some distance away, waiting for his guard with the bleeding nose to join them. 

His mother and the captain by the treeline. The air between and around them lit by the rising sun. Meranin standing proudly, with her arms crossed defiantly against the captain’s angry gesturing. Finally, something seemed to have been decided. The captain turned away from Boots’ mother. 

 “These two men, Siggu and Boots, have found an acceptable method of repaying their crimes. There is to be no further recompense sought,” he proclaimed, “we will settle the terms fully in the village, after some food and some sense are shared all around.” 

Yuggen scratched the statement into his book. Burig turned to Yuggen then and said, “Magister Yuggen, I shall need to look over today’s proceedings.” 

Yuggen nodded. Then Burig said, with emphasis, “all of them.” 

Understanding dawned on Yuggen and he carefully tore the recently written pages from the book and handed them to Burig, who in turn gave them to Bridda. 

 Boots was loaded onto the cart to Bridda’s apologetic conversation with the captain. He was soon joined by Siggu, shivering and crying that it should have been his fingers while Tale gruffly told him to be quiet and let Boots rest. Every bump in the road sent a fresh pain into the throbbing at the end of his arm. Boots’ eyes strayed to the man riding on his horse beside the cart. Captain Burig. 

There was something about him that drew the eye, that held your attention. His close-cropped hair was golden with blonde and orange, his beard trimmed with militaristic perfection, his clothing was black and gray. He was complete, he seemed at ease, he seemed noble not in the royal way, in the ways that actually mattered. There was something easy to respect and easy to trust about him. Boots felt strangely comforted by his presence. 

The cart hit a rut and he felt a fresh spike of pain, but it was also somehow distant. He knew what that pain must mean, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of it. Besides, his eyes were heavy, so heavy, he wanted to sleep. Someone told him to stay awake. 

Soon, the cart pulled to a stop and he was lifted by Tale and, perhaps, Burig. They practically had to carry him up the path. He recognized the familiar smells of home as his vision whirled dizzyingly around him.  

“You can wait outside,” his mother’s command. 

Tale was there again, lifting him up and arranging his limbs on the bed according to Meranin’s instructions. 

“What else do you need?” Tale was asking. 

“I need nothing more,” she replied. “You must go home, Tale. Colin will want to know how his friend fares.” 

“Meranin,” Tale began, “I did not think that they would move so quickly. I tried to delay, but I should have done more. I should have had -” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps I should not have gone anywhere last night. And perhaps if you interfered, we would instead be looking at your severed limbs in addition to my son’s. Or Colin’s. Go home Tale. Let me tend to my son.”  

Then there was blessed silence, the faint smell of fire smoke and the gentle smell of the rushes that rustled on the bed beneath him. His mother’s face loomed at him in a circle of light. 

“I’m sorry mother,” he croaked. “I was wrong. You tried to tell me. I was wrong -” 

“Hush. You are a good son, Boots. You need to rest.” 

She said it in that practical voice of hers, the one that made you feel all would be well because the world worked in practical terms. Water the plants and they will grow, comb the wool thoroughly and will spin true, offer to the gods and they will protect you. Heed your mother’s warnings and you will not rain punishment upon yourself. 

She rested a hand on his forehead and poured some cool water between his lips. He felt the cooling slowly fill his body until he started to go numb. When the fires in his arm were finally quenched by whatever he had drank, he drifted off to sleep.