Value of Life

Continuing the story...

The Value of Life

                      A crowd had gathered in and around the market. They were surrounded by merchant-folk, some looking at them as though they expected them to buy their supplies, some staring in regret at their lost fortune. Some were packing their belongings, heavy purses clinking against laps. To someone cynical enough it could've looked like a farce, yet the horror of the scene was undeniable.

                             A lean, short man rounded the last corner before the market square. He sought out who seemingly was the first passersby - a woman in her middle years - and began to talk, words spilling out of him like beans from a can. The woman, nodding curtly when the poor fellow had to take a breath, finally began to intercept people away from the crowd, apparently spreading the story. Antonius - the lean man - continued to spread the word, panting, until finally the crowd began to ripple. Someone screamed. A few lads ran towards the houses, fear directing their movements.

                                                          Antonius Ducan stopped, giving himself a moment to recover. His family had been informed in time. His family was ready to leave. But even that wasn't enough to clear his head of the anticipating horror of what was to come.

                             Antonius spared a glance at the crowd. The people were bustling about, some talking fervently to each other, but none except a few seemed to have any idea of what to do. The problem was, he didn't, either. In that moment of uncertainty, his thoughts turned to the only authority he knew that could help them: the village Mayor, Georges. He was an old man, but apart from that, there was little he knew about him. But he, too, probably wanted to leave this place as soon as possible.

                             He strode to the manor, the Mayor's residence, where not only the Mayor dwelt, but also several of the local lord's armsmen. Lord Laskaris of Adrianople. Antonius leaped up the few stairs onto the balcony, knocking fiercely on the door. He didn't spare a moment for manners as the door was opened; he rushed in, leaping up the stairs onto the second floor, and entered the Mayor's room in a flurry of dust and grime.

                             "Georges," he stated loudly, "The village is under attack."

                             The Mayor sat by a warm hearth-fire, enjoying his morning cup of tea settled on his wide, wrinkled palm, looking out of the window with a weary, thoughtful expression. Antonius glanced instinctively where the Mayor was looking at, and realized why the Mayor was so still. He realized that there was a clear view of the coast from the window, and so he had been looking at the sea-men for a good bit now.

                             "Did you hear me?" Antonius' voice was cool.

                             The man shifted casually as though he had heard a comment on the weather and nodded slowly. "Then go. You have my permission; gather the armsmen and defend the village. I will come in just a moment..." Georges slowly drew himself up from the chair. Suddenly he straightened, flexing his muscles.

                             "Let's go."

                             They walked down the staircase and towards where the armsmen were housed. Antonius glanced at Georges. "There will be need of the Lord Laskaris' armsmen, Mayor. I suggest that you gather them while we villagers gather in the market," he said.

                             "Yes, of course. Off you go, then." He flung his hand  in a dismissive manner.

                             Antonius found himself in a position where he couldn't do anything else than leave or be asked the oddly infuriating question of why are you still here? He chose the former.

 

 

                             The manor door crashed open, admitting a lone, short fellow. He stomped his way down the stairs, eyeing the market square briefly. Nothing out of the ordinary; he had seen worse reactions to the news of an incoming raid.

Nikolaos turned his gaze away from him. The sea-men had come, and there were no news of any help. That made him more anxious than ever.

                             "Troubled?"

                             "Yes."

                             "Don't be. We'll get to safety soon enough, before the sea-men arrive, and being relaxed usually helps with escaping, too. Don't allow panic to take over you."

                             "I'm not panicked, father," Nikolaos said, his tone very genuine. It was true. He wasn't panicked, but he wasn't relaxed either. "I'm just thinking, if help was to come, it should've arrived...now."

                             "Help or no help, we'll survive this alive."

                             Grigorios regarded him gravely, a worried frown creasing his face, but then the manor's house burst open again. This time several men came out, and a fancy bunch they were. With donned breastplates and swords and shields with emblems on them, they numbered at least twenty. Nikolaos gaped. He had seen some of them on the streets, even talked to one or two, but never together and bunched up like that. One of them stepped towards the crowd and shouted something, and while Nikolaos was still gaping, his father pushed him forward gently.

                             "Time to go, lad," he said quietly, encouragingly. Damianus appeared from amidst the gathering crowd, a small hat balanced on his head, and fell in line behind Nikolaos. Grigorios took him in with a quizzical smile, but the youngster just smiled back without offering any answers.

                             Damianus kicked his thigh when their father wasn't looking, but Nikolaos ignored it. A lone thought had entered his mind, an afterthought of something. The sea-men. Were they people like everyone else? Or were they just murderers? Did they accept Him or deny Him? Him being God, of course. But even thinking His name could bring bad luck.

                             Finally he let out a groan as Damianus kicked him hard enough to crack bones, but before he could return the favor the crowd shook like water released from a dam. It began to move and dwindle, moving somewhere towards the southern gates, but he couldn't see anything from behind so many. His father hurried them onwards, but instead of looking forward, he  constantly gazed over his shoulder at the direction they had came from with increasing worry. Suddenly Nikolaos realized what it was that his father worried so much about. Where was mother?

                             He couldn't just leave his mother like this. He couldn't.

                             "We must go back for mother! She's in there somewhere, and the sea-folk will take her! Come on! We can still reach her!" he cried fervently, trying to pull his father back towards the city. But in mere seconds, a pair of firm hands separated his arms from Grigorios' coat. "FATHER!"

                             "It's too late, son. They've already breached the walls."

                             "What? How could they have breached the walls al--" he stopped, as he spotted thin tendrils of black smoke rising from the northern end of his home village, and suddenly he became aware of the sound of steel clashing against steel from the distance.

                             "She decided to stay," he said as though he only meant it for himself. "There's no point in looking back, lad. Stay strong and continue no matter what comes is how we Argyros folk live, remember that. Remember always."

                             They started for the southern gates again, and none looked back at their burning homes. Hearing it was painful enough, and walking away from it even more painful. Nikolaos thought that if he glanced at the village again, he couldn't stop himself from running back and look for his mother. They all seemed like that, the three of them. The rest save for a few others were already out of the gates, escorted by Laskaris' armsmen, as they passed through the opened gates.

                             "If I'm not entirely mistaken, you two will need these," Grigorios suddenly said, drawing them closer and pulling two long daggers from his coat, "and I will tell you how to use them once we reach a safer place. Ask the armsmen for lessons, if they accept.. Maybe you'll be able to find some proper weapons once we get a bit further away from Argyros, then. That's what I'm hoping for, at least."

                             "Blades...? But why?" Damianus was eyeing his dagger with a hint of glee in his voice, but it was clear that he was just as dumbfounded as Nikolaos. Perhaps even more. "I thought the armsmen are going to protect us now?"

                             "Yes, they are going to protect us, Dam, but keep it anyway. Just in the event of that they'd be unable to protect you."

                             To that, Damianus found no answer. He just tucked the dagger inside his coat, and Nikolaos soon did the same after having inspected the blade. It was maybe one and a half feet long with a visible notch near its tip; perhaps useless in battle against those sea-men, but against bandits... a completely different story, he expected. This dagger would do well against bandits, perhaps. Maybe their father expected bandits to spring up from hiding to raid the village refugees? They caught up with the main bulk of the refugees, while he was still lost in thought. Without him noticing it, they had taken the first steps to Constantinople.

 

                             Ingvar Baard let out a long sigh as he watched the village burn. Its inhabitants had fled surprisingly quickly for the commotion a mere word of the víkingr arriving had caused, but that, at least, was a thing he could bear. A thing that he could not bear, however, was the wound he had taken during the battle against the village's defenders. One of them, apparently a farmer with nothing to lose, had beaten him in swordplay, and only Joakim and two others of his bodyguard leaping to intercept had saved him. Afterwards, he had enjoyed the sight of his men cutting the farmer down with shields, swords and axes - like the others, he had been just as reluctant to die. Had he underestimated these people? What would happen to his troop now, a little over than three hundred víkingr? What if the backlash of his strike in here meant war? That had to be risked. There was something far more valuable to be found in this village.

                             Rumor had it that in his last days, Erik Thorvaldsson had traveled south to the country that bordered Christendom's greatest enemy, and at the same time held off all the might of this said Christendom. If that was true, it'd only be natural for these men to be hardy. Last year, in the winter, they had discovered the exact location of where Thorvaldsson had landed. Supposedly he had found a village and lived there till the end of his days, leaving his keepsake to his descendants. That meant that a direct descendant of Thorvaldsson lived in this village, or had lived - perhaps that farmer had been one? - and that his keepsake must've been left here, too.