Book 1. Medieval Infidel. Act I. The Question Of Violence

Prologue

“Will ye quit making friends wi’ our hostage, wench?” says the man. He wears a scraggly beard and his face is scarred with acne. “His hair alone should frighten ye.”

The young woman brings a bucket and a bundle of hay as she peers down the dark nook their prisoner is shoved into. Cloaked in tattered clothes made of hemp and nettles, the prisoner’s unmistakable hair precedes his reputation. She adjusts the chains shackled to his feet.

“Worry not, brother. He’s got no hands. Ye saw me chop off his hands meself,” derides the pockmarked beanpole of a man, washing down his supper with mead. “Ou’ master cursed his iron shackles. His magic dun work wi’ those shackles. Master says his kind are al’ bastards, cruel an’ violent, they are. They dye their hair an’ ink their eyes wi’ the blood o’ their victims.” He stands from the bench, taking a tankard and a roll of sweet from the table as he makes his way to the door.

“His kin’re the very cause why our gods are dead. Dead!” the man spits as he pushes the door outward, revealing the setting sun.

“Nay, you are wrong,” the tall young woman says, her face as red as apples. She hoists the blindfolded prisoner in her arms. Both men’s eyes widen as she leads their prisoner slowly to their table, laden with delicacies and viands, oriental in origin. The table itself bends from the weight.

“His kind fought with our gods.” The tall young woman helps their prisoner, who finds it difficult to sit. “Show a bit of respect.”

The tall, thin man notices her eyes fixed on him. His heart races, his mouth wide open, his cheeks flushed as she stands defiantly, towering over him. By the dead gods. He throws his tankard onto the rush-strewn ground.

“Simmer down, brother. Lest we forget we’re guests here. The lands all scorched, near barren, we’ve seen nawt but ruined villages the last ten leagues,” the bearded man cautions, watching his brother leave the hut. “Yer a cook, wench. Did the dwarven folk teach ya?”

“My da taught me,” says their hostess as she sits beside their prisoner, the stumps of his arms chained. “He was an apprentice to the dwarves for many years.” She attempts to remove his blindfold.

“No, no, no!” warns the scarred-faced man. “His eyes are pure wicked, vengeful an’ evil. Just leave it be, wench, should ye not fancy in joinin’ the gods.”

The man watches as the young woman, taller than her brother across the table, towers over the prisoner beside her. Her hazel-caramel hair cascades smoothly beneath her veil. With an unsettling lack of fear, she feeds the prisoner with foreign grub of ground pork and minced vegetables folded in a thin, crispy, golden-brown skin.

“Say, man, I will permit you lot to stay for the night. The winds are whispering soft. Another storm approaches,” the hazel-haired woman declares before she is interrupted. “I only ask you to permit your hostage to weave me a tale.”

“Ye mad, wench.” The man grumbles. “Me brother an’ I are a bit knackered, our horses are too, but his kind brought our world to an end and murdered the gods, they did.” The man scratches his chin hiding under his beard. “He’s worth a fortune, ‘nuff for us to rebuild.” The man pauses. “Wha’s the harm in knowin’ how the world came to its end before they hang him? Unless they fancy severed heads still.”

“Where to?” asks the hostess, wiping a crumb off their prisoner’s lips with her fingers.

“To Mistress Pizzolato,” hushes the bearded man, his voice grown low and soft as he utters the name.

“The Queenpin of Murrica?” the fearless veiled woman giggles, stifling a laugh. “Men are easily bewitched by her oh so-great beauty.” She shakes her head. “She will pay you nought, you crippled her bounty.”

The bearded man frowns.

“You have papers?” Their cook blows the steam off the spoonful of stewed meat. “Pirates have blocked the key ports of the western coasts. You need official passes.”

The captor’s brows furrow.

“If you all stay after the storm passes, I can spare an official document,” the young woman presses a spoonful to the prisoner. “You shan’t give me that look. My da knows people.”

The bearded man makes no comment and instead digs his spoon into the sizzling diced pork, steaming hot, mixed with liver, onions, and chillies. The aroma makes his mouth water.

“What do they call you, man?” asks the young woman, tipping a tankard of mead to the prisoner’s lips, who refuses to drink.

“Do you have any milk?” the blindfolded prisoner’s rough, low, and metallic voice sends shivers to their spines.

“The cows, sheep, and goats were requisitioned a week past. Only the hogs and fowl remain,” their cook responds, shrugging off the prisoner’s unpleasant voice.

The prisoner grows silent momentarily before asking, “What does your father call you?”

The hazel-haired woman brushes her exposed hair underneath her veil. “Raschel. My uncle dubbed me so.”

“What tale do you wish to hear?” the prisoner asks, “My tales are long and tedious, mind you.”

The tall veiled woman moves closer to the prisoner. “I wish to hear how the moon earned its green hue.”

Neither notices the bearded man sitting across from them…blushing as he watches them both.

“We, the common folk, know nawt why the purple moon now has a bit of green,” she leans forward toward the prisoner.

The blindfolded prisoner shakes the shackled stumps of his arms. “It’s a harrowing tale.”

“We have all night.” The young woman smiles in excitement as she moves closer.

The prisoner sighs, “Where to start?”