Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.
Nothing Lasts For Ever
Bernard died a decade later at the spectacular age of one hundred and one years. The old warrior’s death came peacefully, in his sleep. Ala found him lying peacefully in his bed. His expression was calm, perhaps even content.
Despite her grief, Ala was forced to consider what to do. She knew she must act carefully if she wanted to achieve everything Bernard had charged her with. Bernard, as Captain of the Militia by the Duke’s order had been a powerful man in Thetwick, probably the most powerful. While his responsibilities had never included any civil affairs, having the authority to decide who was allowed to bear arms and when as well as who had to serve in the militia and when had given him a great deal of leverage in Thetwick.
The fact that Bernard had delegated his field command to Ala over the last decades was irrelevant now that he had passed away. The Ducal order bore Bernard’s name, not hers. She was still just ‘that half-elf swordmaid’, a second or third rate citizen at best. Everyone had been forced to show her whatever respect Bernard demanded. She had made her own reputation of course, mostly within the the militia, especially the cavalry and with the horse breeders and the hunters. Even to them she was something out of the ordinary and beyond those circles she was an outsider, something that she knew would never change. Even living in Thetwick for a century and a half didn’t change that. She had do doubt that to most of Thetwick she was still just a non-human teenager and a female one at that. It was quite safe for most of the townspeople to ignore her and get on with their lives.
With Bernard’s death, the power over the militia reverted to the new Constable, Travis. Needless to say he was no friend to Bernard or Ala. Bernard had of course warned the Duke that the moment would come, but no replacement for him had yet made himself known. No document offering guidance had come from the Duke either. She wondered if she should stay in Thetwick and wait it out. She knew she wanted to stay for Bernard’s burial at least. The house and lands in and around the town were to be hers by Bernard’s will. Bernard had owned fields as well which were rented to farmers in exchange for a portion of their produce. She knew that by Taladarian law, women were not permitted to own property unless noble or widowed. She had no idea how the law applied to elves and probably no one else in Thetwick did either. She realised she also had no idea how Bernard had expected her to cross that particular hurdle.
Since she expected trouble she went out the night after Bernard died and hid travelling gear and supplies out in the forest. It was insurance in case she had to leave in a hurry. She included her personal things that she felt were important and what she couldn’t keep on her person. She had a feeling it would come to a confrontation. She also visited the cemetery and placed flowers on Aubree and Palady’s graves. She didn’t like cemeteries and it didn’t feel like a place where either Palady or Aubree would have wanted to be. It was customary in Thetwick to visit the graves of one’s ancestors though and Ala respected the custom. She felt far closer to the two women when she was alone at the ruined tower beneath the stars, thinking of them, than in the drab cemetery. She went now anyway though, since she had an inkling that it might not be safe for her to stay in Thetwick for much longer.
Bernard’s estate was one of the biggest in Thetwick, probably in the whole Westmarch. It was sure to attract those seeking to gather wealth. She visited one of Priestess Deirdre’s successors, a woman who looked the same age as Ala did. Her name was Priestess Ygraine and Ala told her the news. With the accustomed routine of the clergy of Ceres, Ygraine came to the house. The local undertaker also visited promptly. In proper entrepreneurial spirit he had already produced a casket in exactly Bernard’s size. It had had time to gather several years worth of dust. The undertaker seemed to have underestimated Bernard’s hardiness.
The funeral was to be held in the morning in the cemetery by the temple, as was the old custom in Thetwick. After that, the will was to be read in the Council Hall. The whole town came to the funeral, and all of the militia turned out in the surcoats that had become standard under Bernard’s leadership. Disturbing the image was the Constables’ son, Magnus. He was the old Constable Roger’s grandson, the man whom Bernard had taught his place that first day back in Thetwick, fifty years earlier.
Magnus stood at the head of the assembled militia, standing in for his father who as Lieutenant of the Westmarch Militia could now assign anyone he pleased to execute his duties for him the same way Bernard had done with Ala. Ala herself had not been allowed to participate, being sent away when she wanted to take her place in the Company. Her blood had boiled, but she decided that it wouldn’t be right to tarnish Bernard’s memory by forcing the point and killing someone at his funeral. She had decided that she wasn’t going to upset the proceedings then and there and quietly walked behind the militia company as it marched behind Bernard’s casket.
Magnus wasn’t even wearing the surcoat in the Westmarch colours that Bernard had instituted. Instead he wore some gaudy and expensive thing that he must have had tailored for him in Taladaria. She knew that he had only turned up at militia practice sporadically, probably more as a means to gather information for his father. She had decided to attend in her customary attire of mail, with her sword at her side. She was wearing the militia surcoat because no one would dare to try and stop her. She’d decided that she was going to stop wearing the headscarf too, wearing her red-gold hair in a long, coiled braid that left her pointed ears clearly visible. She was going to leave Thetwick soon anyway. What did she care if people caught on that she was a real elf? She had already made sure she had all her silver with her, just in case something odd was about to happen.
To her surprise, the last few ranks of the militia company, where the archers and cavalrymen were, stopped marching and made room for her to pass between them before they fell in behind her. The men who had always ridden on patrol with her had decided they preferred to march behind her than the new Lieutenant, it seemed. It made her feel better but it had been hard enough not to cry even before that happened. The rest of the burial was conducted without incident. At least, if you didn’t count the glares from the Constable and his son. She was ignored by the official part of the proceedings though many villagers stopped to offer her their condolences. Most of them tried to be on their way again as quickly as they could as the tension was palpable. She appreciated their words nonetheless.
She couldn’t give herself the time to commemorate Bernard properly. She was constantly checking around her if the Constable or his cronies were doing anything suspicious. The only reason she could really think of that the Constable was not already moving in on her was that he was uncertain the militia would follow his orders. It seemed to be enough to stay his hand and nothing untoward happened at the cemetery. She stayed out of town, choosing a perch in the treeline with a view of Bernard’s house until the reading of the will that afternoon. She saw that several militiamen stopped at the house, apparently leaving when they had convinced themselves she wasn’t there.
All parties interested in the contents of Bernard’s will – which seemed to be an awful lot of people, assembled in the Council Hall. Aside from the Council there were around thirty villagers and militiamen present. They were mostly people who had some sort of relationship with the Constable or Bernard and his duties as militia Captain. There were also a number of militia members. Ala carefully noted that those present seemed to be the men from the infantry section. Men whom she knew to be friendly with the Constable and his son.
None of the men who had chosen to march behind her at the funeral were anywhere to be seen. Presumably, the Constable had devised something else for them to do, probably somewhere far enough away that they couldn’t interfere. The new town Scribe was called to read Bernard’s will. The document that was read had nothing at all to do with the will that Bernard had dictated to her and had signed in the presence of the Scribe. A copy of the legitimate document was in the scroll tube she was carrying. According to the forgery, all Bernard’s belongings would go into a special fund with which the Lieutenant of the Militia could fund operations and purchase supplies. In other words, into the pocket of the Constable. It was a bold ploy Ala hadn’t anticipated. She gave it a moment’s thought and responded to the customary question posed by the scribe. “Are there any who contest the will and testament of Bernard of Thetwick?”
She took a step forward, “I contest it.”
“On what grounds?” Asked the scribe.
“That it is a forgery. As you well know, Scribe Cristofor.”
There was a collective intake of breath. Such intrigue was seldom seen in Thetwick.
“Have you any proof, Alagariel Half-Elven?” He placed particular emphasis in the “half-elven” part.
“I have a signed copy of the original will, counter signed by your predecessor.”
“May the council see it?”
“Only as long as it doesn’t leave my fingers. May I see the false will?”
“It is not false until so proven, girl. Approach.”
She stepped forward and pulled the will out of the leather scroll tube. She showed it to the council members, most of whom who could, at best, barely read.
“Ah yes, your copy is older than the version we have here. Bernard must have changed it without your knowledge, see here.”
The scribe pointed at a date under the forgery. She looked at the signature. It wasn’t even a very good forgery.
“Whenever it was written, the signature of Bernard is still forged. Furthermore, the idea that Bernard would make any significant decision on such a decision without telling me, is ludicrous.”
“Or perhaps the signature you have is the forgery eh? Doubtless you can produce other documents with his signature, but that means nothing as you could have forged them all.”
“The same goes for you.”
“So, it would seem that it is up to the council to decide.”
“I disagree. The council should stay its decision, put Bernard’s estate in escrow of someone other that the Constable or the Scribe. I would suggest Harald Petersson, a wealthy man in good standing, while I ride to Castle Peyrepertuse with both documents and we verify the correct signature against the Ducal warrant assigning Bernard as Duke’s Captain of the Thetwick militia. I think the Duke will attest to the veracity of a document in his archive, signed by his esteemed father, don’t you agree?”
The scribe scowled at her. She looked around the room. She knew the council of elders couldn’t deny her request, because doing so could also bring the Duke down on them for denying him his rightful authority. She didn’t think the Constables influence stretched that far. Not yet anyway, not with Bernard’s soul still hovering over the room. Strictly speaking only a noble had an actual right to the Duke’s court. She didn’t think the elders would vote against this though. They would still be too wary so close after Bernard’s funeral and they couldn’t stop her from petitioning the Duke’s court on her own if she went there anyway. It would be better for them to be seen to support thorough justice. The Constable wasn’t quite that powerful, not yet. She had talked through all these contingencies with Bernard. It made her sad that the old warrior was being proven right.
The Scribe spoke, with an uncertain glance in the Constable’s direction.
“Hmm…. I see. Elders, we must put it to a vote.”
The Constable’s expression displayed extreme displeasure.
They voted to acquiesce to the Duke’s justice, though only by a margin of one vote. For now, the council was still more scared of the Duke than they were of the Constable. Ala doubted that that would last. It was a long way from Thetwick to Peyrepertuse. She had forced matters by requesting the case be placed before the Duke. It was likely to have all sorts of consequences because it put the Constable in a difficult position. The Constable stood up, with a nasty grin in her direction.
“Now on to another matter. As Constable of Thetwick, it is clear to me that you no longer have the right to bear arms, as I rescind permission for you to do so. You will surrender your weapon at once, upon pain of death.”
“Captain Bernard had the delegated authority to give the right to bear arms in perpetuity, only rescindable by the Duke or his direct descendants. As acting Captain of the Thetwick Militia Company, as ordered in writing by the late Bernard, whose estate is being stayed waiting for a ruling by the Duke of Taladaria, that order stays valid in perpetuity until the Duke or his descendants specifically state otherwise. Never mind that a ruling about his estate has been made, freezing its assets and agreements. You are not authorised to rescind my right bear arms.”
“Bernard is dead. Stupid girl, none of this hogwash is valid. Men, seize her weapons!”
What he’d said wasn’t true. Any rights to bear arms Bernard had issued would remain valid until the Duke himself rescinded them. It was sufficiently vague though that Ala could see how he could get away with doing it if queried about it by anyone. It wasn’t as if anyone in Thetwick other than the scribe had a notion of the hierarchy of the Law. The fact that the Duke’s decree trumped anything that the Constable could dream up was not apparent to anyone in the Hall except perhaps Scribe Cristofor and he was solidly in the Constable’s pocket.
Three of the Constable’s friends in the militia moved to block her path, they had obviously been briefed that this was going to be required of them. One tried to take her sword. The moment he touched the weapons’ pommel, he recoiled, his eyes wide in shock as he sank to his knees and fell sideways, clutching his chest. She had no idea what had caused the man to collapse, but it gave her all the opening she needed. She headed straight for the next one and made contact with her left hand, which caused him to react to her feint. She then rotated her hip and put her other mail-fisted glove straight into the man’s oesophagus, letting out some of her rage fuelled energy. She felt his windpipe collapse under the weight of her mail fisted strike. He crumpled onto the floor too, gasping for air.
The last one attempted to come after her. She engaged her hip and left arm towards him, feinting and causing him to grab for her advancing wrist with his right hand, she grabbed his fingers with her other hand and turned her hand over his arm towards him as she moved to his right side. She dropped the hand she had first let him make contact with straight towards his centre of mass, following through with the entire weight of both mailed arms behind it. She heard his arm crunch as his wrist was dramatically overextended. She’d snapped both bones in his lower arm. He screamed as she took another step backwards, turned back towards the door and ran out. She saw no one else come after her. She could just hear the Constable’s screams that she must be caught over the general uproar.
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