Cormyr

Chapter 8: Massacre

Year of Distant Thunder (16 DR)

Ondeth and the others picked their way carefully through the smoking remains of the Bleth farmstead. The eldest Obarskyr’s face was like stone, and he said nothing as he stared around at the devastation. Not a single building had been spared… and not a single creature was alive.

The farm was only a mile from Suzail, a small glade that Mondar Bleth had cleared to twice its original size. Three main buildings, one with a stone foundation, had stood here, and in this place Mondar had reared a prodigious supply of goats. Now those buildings were smoking husks, and the riven corpses of the goats lay strewn around the camp, along with the human bodies.

Ten men and women had been slain here for no good reason. Mondar himself had been found at the entrance to the farmhouse, his battered body supported by a tripod of thin ivory pikes tipped with gold. Elven weapons. Their bloody points had stood up out of his chest and belly, holding his huge, bearlike body clear of the ground. Mondar’s eyes were open and accusing.

Faerlthann came up to his father with Mondar’s sword, a huge, heavy-hafted blade that had always hung at the large man’s side. Mondar had never been shy about drawing that sword to make a point. The blade was sticky and dark with drying blood. Though there were no elven bodies among the dead, it seemed Mondar had held out well against his attackers.

The eyes of the older and younger Obarskyrs met, and Ondeth saw accusation in his son’s eyes. Two of the Bleths had survived this slaughter by being in Suzail at the time. Minda, Mondar’s sister, had been a guest for dinner the previous night and had brought Arphoind, Bleth’s youngest son, a strapling of all of eight winters, with her.

The visiting Bleths had come for dinner and stayed the night, Arphoind in the loft and Minda… well, Minda was in Ondeth’s quarters. No one should have known of their tryst, and the Bleths would have left with the morning sun, the rest of Suzail none the wiser. But in the dawn there was smoke rising from the northwest, and panic in the household, and not a few eyes noted that the raven-tressed beauty of the Bleths had emerged from Ondeth’s private room.

They had left Minda and her nephew behind when they went to investigate, which was just as well. Ondeth did not want the woman to see her brother pinioned like a goose held over a fire. And the elves who did this might still be nearby.

Upon seeing the devastation, Ondeth’s first thought had been, “What will I tell Minda?” Yet looking into his own son’s eyes, he was faced with another question: What do I tell Faerlthann? His son was among those who’d noted Minda’s emergence in the morning. His face was pale with anger-not anger for elves, but rather for Ondeth Obarskyr, who had betrayed his mother’s memory

As they’d hastened out of Suzail, Faerlthann had said but one thing, a short, barely heard whisper as they pulled their swords from the wall and gathered their light suits of armor. “How could you do it? How could you do that to Mother?” But then he had turned to join the others and there was no time to talk.

Ondeth should have spoken out, and spoken out then. It had been four years since Suzara had left them, tired of the wolves and the mosquitoes and, most of all, the endless work. He should have replied that Mother had already done unto him. Nor had this tryst been the first time, only the first time they’d been caught at it. If Minda had not been at Suzail, she would be dead, here among the flies, and young Arphoind, Faerlthann’s friend, as well.

Ondeth should have said something then, but there’d been no time. And now his son looked at him over the bloody edge of Mondar’s blade, and his eyes were as accusing as Mondar’s own.

Perhaps later they would talk, father and son. Perhaps later he could explain, but now they had to cut down Bleth’s body and give him and the others a decent cremation. The Silver brothers were already gathering the dead into a pile, goats on the bottom and humans on the top. Another column of smoke, thick and oily, would rise here this day.

Ondeth looked at Bleth’s suspended form, pitched slightly forward, as if taking flight. Mondar’s jaw hung loose, as if he were passing on some drunken secret to those below. Yet there was no secret to be found here, only a warning from a people who had for the past decade been Ondeth’s allies.

“Why now?” asked Ondeth. Faerlthann started at the dreadful quiet in his father’s voice. “After all these years, why did the elves attack now?”

The center of the settlers’ universe was Suzail, and the center of the Suzail was Ondeth’s manor

The town, named after Ondeth Obarskyr’s now departed wife, had slowly crept its way up the low hillside behind the original glade. The lumbering had been carefully supervised by Baerauble Elf-friend, with the felled trees being used immediately for housing. Most of the original homesteads had been given over to farming, the buildings Ondeth and Villiam had erected now home to tools and coops and shearing floors. Newly arriving families moved upward, inside the sprawling wooden wall that embraced the entire hill. Its height was claimed by the Obarskyrs by right of first arrival, and none argued with that. Three hundred and fifty or so folk called Suzail home, a muster that could live in a single block of a packed city in Chondath or Impiltur, or even in the mercantile outposts of nearby Sembia.

Yet they were prospering. A dock had been built four seasons ago, allowing ships safe moorings along the rocky coast. Previously waterborne visitors had to make landfall at Marsember, then trek along the coast to Suzara’s City, Suzail. Merchants were now bypassing the swampy town in favor of the Obarskyr settlement. Baerauble’s contacts with the elves made it possible for the port to ship out elven cloth, nuts, and beast hides, receiving in return tools, weapons, and various fine mongery from the human cities on more southerly shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

Ondeth’s manor looked out over the city. Despite its two floors, it was a low, solid rampart of rough-cut stone and gray slate shingles, set partially into the hillside behind. Its stone foundation had been the first in Suzail, and envy of it had spurred the other families to build likewise.

Ondeth had talked of raising some towers at the ends of his home, but had been too busy to commit time enough to do so. When he built the manor, most of it was a single great hall, and here most of the populace of Suzail was wont to gather in the early evenings around the great fire pit in the center of the chamber. The families would come to cook their evening meals, gossip, and trade tales, lies, and legends. With the rising popularity of Suzail, even an occasional bard or minstrel would join those at the fireside, to swap sweet tales in exchange for a roof to sleep under.

And from a great chair close to the fire, Ondeth Obarskyr was the center of his own universe. He, too, had grown in the past decade, the heaviness of advancing years settling firmly around his waist. And though there were plenty of young and unattached women in town, particularly the daughters of the Silver brothers, he never stepped beyond mild flirtation with any of them. At least not at first.

Knowledge held him in check-the knowledge held by the folk of Suzail. Most knew Suzara, and knew about the heated rows she and her husband had shared. Ondeth had never convinced his wife that this was a place worth staying in, and all the stone foundations and swelling population in Faerun would not keep her here. Once, early on, there’d been a chance Ondeth might change his mind about carving a home from the wilderness, but that chance had died in one afternoon of elven horns and lights in the trees… and with it, their relationship.

Suzara took the youngest lad and returned to Impiltur, sailing away on the first boat to moor at the new dock. Ondeth did not see her off, but Faerlthann did. In the new settlement, he’d grown to be taller than his father, his muscles hardened by work, his face tanned by the sun, and his eyes keen. And there was something else in those eyes from time to time: a faraway misty look the young man would get when Baerauble would visit, with his tales of elven kingdoms and their wild hunts.

Yet in the four years since Suzara’s sailing, father and son had settled into their roles. Faerlthann was the dutiful son, Ondeth the desolate father, and both seemed comfortable in their parts. The young women of the Silver households respected old Ondeth, but their eyes lit up for young Faerlthann.

So things had gone until Minda Bleth arrived, after Mondar her brother. Mondar had shown up six years ago, hard behind Jaquor and Tristan, the Silver brothers. But while the twin Silvers had agreed to settle within the confines of the already cleared area, Mondar would have none of that. There was a glade a mile northwest of the main settlement, little more than a clearing burnt bare by some elder wyrm or lightning strike. It had water and wood close at hand, and the place was far enough away from Suzail to allow privacy and close enough to afford protection.

Or at least that was Mondar’s opinion in the matter, voiced loudly enough to ring from the rafters of Ondeth’s first house. Mondar was as massive as a thundercloud, with a temper to match. He was already balding, but he kept a thick beard that reached nearly to his belt. His forehead was plowed with deep lines, and when he was in full fury, which was often, he could outbellow, outshout, and outargue any man in the colony, including Ondeth. It was generally agreed that by allowing Mondar to settle elsewhere, Ondeth was keeping a potential rival at a safe distance.

Oddly enough, the two had eventually become friends and allies, sharing a love of both the land and of home-brewed ale. Ondeth was at the bedside when Mondar’s wife died giving birth to Arphoind. The night that Suzara left the town named for her, Mondar and Ondeth had gone on a roaring drunk, wandering in the night together bellowing out rude, impromptu lyrics to all the elven tunes they could recall.

Mondar and Baerauble hated each other instantly, of course, and the elder Bleth did not miss an opportunity to goad the elf-friend. Yet despite this and Mondar’s rapid clearing of the glade, the sky did not fall, the elves did not attack, and the world did not end. Suzail continued to grow, and others besides Mondar began to say that perhaps the elven restrictions were just grand old words, that perhaps by now the elves had come to terms with humans moving into their lands.

Ondeth held to the limits set down by Baerauble, for there was still more than enough land within the rambling town wall. Still, a distance had grown between the old farmer and the wizard, and when Baerauble came to visit, he spent more time with Faerltbann and the youngsters than with his old friend.

The arrival of Mondar’s sister, Minda, strained the new friendship between Mondar and Ondeth. She’d come to Suzail a year ago, as fair as her brother was rough-hewn. Her hair was the color of the darkest night, and her eyes glowed like bits of silver. Her face was unmarked and had a golden sheen to it. She was as tall as her brother and Ondeth and, like her brother, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Even if Mondar disliked the attention Minda paid to the older farmer, he could do little to dissuade her.

Minda spent more and more time in the manor hall. She brought gossip and tales from old Impiltur and told them with colorful flourishes. In a private moment, she told Ondeth that Suzara had officially dissolved the marriage and remarried a Theskan merchant. Ondeth never told Faerlthann, but afterward Minda’s presence in the Obarskyr manor became more frequent.

Until one day when she didn’t go home at all, and the morning brought spirals of black smoke rising from Mondar’s homestead.

The wizard appeared as they were laying Mondar’s corpse atop the others. Suddenly he was there, at the corner of the glade, as if he had just stepped out of the woods. For years Ondeth bad thought that the spell hurler walked through the woods, until finally he noticed the bending of light around the wizard when he first appeared. The mage arrived by wizardry and probably did not walk anywhere.

The passing decade had changed Baerauble not a whit, he was still lanky and emaciated, his hair and beard unbroken auburn. He carried a heavy, gnarled staff now, but Ondeth never saw him use it for support.

As the elf-friend approached, the Silvers and others pulled back. Several laid hands on their blades, ready to draw them if the wizard showed any sign of menace.

Ondeth and Faerlthann held their ground. The older Obarskyr nodded to the mage and spoke quietly. “Were you involved in this?”

“Not directly,” Baerauble replied, his face haggard and worn. Faerlthann noted that no shock chased across the wizard’s features as he glanced at the heap of corpses. “You need fire?”

Ondeth shrugged and turned to the carrion pile. He offered a prayer to Lathander and Tyche and all the old gods for the safe passage of those slain “to their fitting final fates.”

Baerauble bowed his head along with everyone else, muttered a few quiet phrases, and stretched out his hands. A gout of fire burst from his outstretched palms.

The wood beneath the bodies caught in an instant, and in the space of a few breaths, the entire pyre was ablaze. A new column of smoke rose into the Cormyrean sky.

The settlers and the wizard watched the flames catch hold of Mondar’s shirt and flesh, then crackle along his beard. “What do you mean, ‘not directly’?” asked Ondeth at last.

“Iliphar’s court has been debating the fate of this farm for some time,” said Baerauble.

“This farm has been here for six years,” said Ondeth sharply.

“A pleasant day for an elf,” said Baeraubie calmly. “The briefest slumber for a dragon. Elves decide things slowly.”

“And act quickly,” said Ondeth. “So quickly you had no chance to warn us?”

Ondeth expected a denial, one that would have shattered the last remains of their friendship. Instead Baerauble sighed. “Would a warning have helped? Would it have been better for you to have died here, sword in hand, helping an ally who was clearly in the wrong?”

“‘Twas six years, man!” said Ondeth hotly, his brows coming together in a fierce line.

“Aye, and I would have thought you could talk some sense into the man in that time,” Baerauble replied. “You know the elves only allow slow growth, and only where we have permitted it. Now the rest of the human settlers will stay closer to Suzara’s town and leave the elves to their hunting.”

“You think that?” said Ondeth. “You honestly think that my people will not seek revenge? You honestly think they’ll agree to protect your precious forests out of fear?”

The two older men, with young Faerlthann beside them, watched the flames dance among the dead. Mondar and his family were little more than black lumps among leaping red and orange fiery tendrils now, only vaguely human in form.

“No, I do not,” said the mage at length. “But my voice does not carry the weight it once did in Iliphar’s court. There are those who point to my human blood and call me your puppet and spy. Some were expecting me to ride with a warning to you, and so betray myself.” He looked at the grim, watching men with their hands on their swords, and then back to Ondeth. “Tell me, are these men loyal?”

Ondeth looked at the mage and said nothing.

“Are these men loyal to you?” Baerauble asked again. “Will they do as you ask?”

Ondeth looked at the others. The Silver brothers, Rayburton, Jolias Smye the smith. Faerlthann. Without thought to the choosing in his haste, he’d chosen them to ride here with him.

“Yes, they are loyal,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked at the wizard.

“Loyal enough to kill for you?” pressed Baerauble, “Or, more importantly, not to kill?”

“What are you getting at, wizard?” snapped Ondeth.

“I could not stop this attack, but we can stop the war,” said the elf-friend. “The elves have no argument with you and your settlement in general, though it now grows large enough to worry some in the court. Only Mondar, who broke the covenant, was punished. If you and your men tell your people that elves did this, they’ll attack the court and their hunters, and this-” he waved one hand around the smoldering battlefield, ending at the pyre- “will befall Suzail and all of you. Do you want that?”

Ondeth was silent.

“But if orcs did this,” the mage continued, “If the pig faces were responsible, then your settlement continues. Will your men tell that lie to save your people?”

Ondeth’s brows did not rise. “Why would they want to lie?”

Baerauble ignored the question. “If you told them to, would they obey you?”

Ondeth thought about it for a moment, looking at the others. The Silvers already had a large and growing brood in the settlement, Rayburton a daughter, and Smye a wife heavy with their first child. They had all argued with Mondar about the wisdom of settling beyond the walls. Yes, they would-reluctantly-agree, if the alternative was explained to them.

“Aye,” said Ondeth. “They would obey.”

“Let this be the work of the goblin-kin, then,” said Baerauble. “I will go back and work peace among the discontented elves. But there is another matter: Why will these men obey you?”

Ondeth blinked. “Because they choose to. They’re reasonable men, and they know they cannot take on the elves themselves and have any hope of victory.” Yet, he added to himself.

Baerauble shook his head. “They follow you because they choose to, but also because you choose to lead. You are the founder of your town, and the strongest voice in it. Were I to ask them to do this thing, regardless of the soundness of my arguments, they would ignore me, even though it would mean their own deaths. You they will listen to.”

“What are you saying, mage?” Faerlthann asked, looking from his father to the elf-friend and back.

“You are their leader in truth,” said Baerauble. “I want you to be leader in name as well. Declare yourself king, or duke, or whatever rank you so choose. I can offer the support of Iliphar and the court in this matter. With Mondar dead now, there is no other strong voice. Marry your Minda if you want to seal the matter.” He ignored the younger Obarskyr’s sharp intake of breath at the mention of Minda’s name.

Ondeth did not look at his son, but instead regarded the wizard. The elven attack had come when Minda was not present and had silenced the only man in a hundred miles who could challenge Ondeth’s tacit leadership of Suzail. If it were blamed on orcs or goblins, the peaceful lives of Suzailans could continue alongside the elves with the threat of death under elven arrows helping the town elders keep the secret of the assault.

How much did Baerauble know of this massacre?

Ondeth watched the crackling flames, aware of the scrutiny of both the mage and his own son. If he were to agree, that would mean Faerlthann would gain everything upon his death. More than a farm, more than a name, Faerlthann would have a kingdom. Would that be enough for the young man to forgive him his affair with Mondar’s sister?

At length, Ondeth opened his mouth and said deliberately, “No.”

The mage protested, “But-“

“No,” repeated the farmer. “Many of us have seen kings, and in general they are a bad lot. If I command these men, it is by their choice, not mine. If they obey the strictures you and the elves have laid down, it is through loyalty to me, not fear of you. If they hide this foul deed, it will be through their own desire to remain, not any order I enforce upon them.”

He looked at the pyre, where the Bleths were barely recognizable as things that had been human. “No, I cannot be your puppet king, dancing to elven tunes,” Ondeth continued. “You have no authority to offer me such a title. These men do, and they have had their fill of monarchs and official leaders. I will see that your secret is kept, because it is in all our best interests to keep it secret. But I will not take a crown born out of a massacre.”

The flames were beginning to die now, thick smoke pouring from the pyre. The smell of burned flesh hung heavily in the air.

At length, Baerauble spoke. “I will convey your refusal back to Iliphar’s court. Know, Ondeth Obarskyr, that the elves are concerned about the growth of your little settlement. If you will not take the reigns of leadership in an official form, they will have to decide what to do about the humans in their wolf woods.”

With that, he turned away from the pyre.

Ondeth shouted after him, “And how long will this decision take?”

Baerauble paused, then turned. “Ten years. Perhaps twenty. The elves are slow to decide…”

“And swift to act,” finished the farmer. “And will you warn us when they choose to eliminate us as they did this farmstead?”

Baerauble Etharr, the elf-friend mage, said something, followed by a jumble of syllables in a strange tongue. The light shivered, flowed like water, bent around him, and he was gone.

Gone back to his elven masters to report his failure.

Ondeth caught the mage’s last mumbled words and thought the wizard said, “Prepare yourselves.”

Faerlthann heard those same words but thought the mage had said, “I shall try.”