Harvest Festival

City of Shylo, before the Hall of Banners.
Night of the Harvest Festival.

Crowds of men and women were packed onto the parade ground before the Outfit's seat of power, jostling for position around long tables piled high with the land's bounty. Fresh fruits and vegetables stood in baskets by platters of roasted pork and beef, entire game birds steaming alongside huge loaves of bread. Kegs of beer and mead poured a river of merriment into thousands of cups, and from thence into the bellies of a people taking a well-deserved reprieve from the toil of workaday life.

One table was set perpendicular to the others, and in the center sat Sarj Beorn, Bossman of the Outfit. To either side were his most trusted advisers, hand-picked for their abilities in war and peace; Locage had once been the Tyrant of Iola on the White Coast, and signed on to the Outfit roster when his reforms turned the city's traditionalist faction against him; Timu Limper led the alliance of plains tribes that had joined Sarj on his way west, and was as daring in diplomacy as at a lightning raid; Ingva Eriksdottir came from somewhere to the northeast, a seer and healer beyond compare. There were more arrayed to either side, seated by seniority of their time spent with the Outfit, rather than their personal or political importance to Sarj or the Outfit.

"Grey-Eyes watch me, it makes a change, no?" Locage laughed around a mouthful of honeyed pork, nudging Sarj with his elbow as he swilled from a mug of mead. "Six months of stone bread and road dust, and now!" Reaching across the table, he grabbed a loaf of wheat and split it between his fine-fingered hands, waving it at his commander's face exuberantly. You would have thought he had been born in the low streets of a fishing village from his manner, rather than an alabaster citadel. "Have you ever seen anything more lovely?"

The Outfit's bossman slapped his friend on the shoulder in good cheer, banging his own cup of honey-wine against Locage's. "Not since I saw your face when you came to me by night and begged me to smuggle you out of Iola!" They both through their heads back and howled with mirth, for now it was safe to do so; at the time, Sarj had been frantically trying to find a way past the rioting citizens and rebellious garrison without losing his entire company of thirty Alistairs and hundred pikemen. They had been trapped against the walls of the palace by the howling mob, with no way out until they learned of the secret way laid down by Locage's more savvy predecessors.

"And let that be a lesson to you, young man," Locage said for perhaps the thousandth time. "Know thy people, and never try to give them too much of what they need and too little of what they want... Speak of evil..."

At the same moment, Timu Limper put a hand on Sarj's other shoulder to get his attention. "Here's wickedness, lord!" Sarj followed the plainsman's darting eye, his expression going from beatific to thunderous as he saw who approached, and how. Riva Harres and four of his bandits were heading for the long tables, armed and armored... and ahorse.

Getting to his feet, Sarj called two names. "Axel, Stamper!" Stamper was already rising from his place at the end of the table, putting aside a western girl with a giant's care. Sarj's military apprentice hurried up, a sheathed backsword held with reverent gentility. Taking his blade from the boy, the Boss marched around the table and went out to meet the least of his subordinate chieftans.

Before Harres could speak, Sarj strode right up and seized him by the belt, dragging him out of the saddle and pitching him to the ground. Before the others could do more than snarl and grab for their sword hilts, Stamper came in from the other side and hauled two more to the ground, delivering a kick to one that audibly cracked ribs through the hardened leather. The last two hurriedly jumped off their mounts, apparently having taken the hint; they landed in fighting crouches, one showing an inch of bare steel as he loosened his sword from the sheath.

Sarj stood over Harres, placing one boot delicately on the man's chest as he fought for air, the force of impact having shocked it out of him. The squat plainsmen froze as the razor tip of Sarj's sword touched his throat. It was silent on the field for the first time in three days, absolutely quiet except for the shallow breathing of the watching crowds.

"So, you mean to make war on me, Harres? I spared your clan at Slow River, gave you a commission in the Outfit, and this is your service?" He spoke in the harsh, word-biting trade language of the plains, the second-most-common language of his people. "This is a festival. You have shown the face of anger to the land of my ancestors."

Beneath him, Riva Harres shivered at the chill of his master's tone, and felt the weight of those words more surely than the heavy boot on his breast.

"Nothing to say, coward?" Sarj spat into the chieftan's face, wishing for a moment that it were venom for the man's eyes. "I show mercy one more time, Harres. You will not enter the city until the next harvest festival.  Further, you will not ride a horse or wagon until I give you leave to do so. If you insult my honor or attempt to incur land-debt against me again, I will kill you and every one of your people." Raising his voice, he bellowed for all to ear, raising his left hand by his head. "By Earth, by Sky, so swears Sarj Beorn!"

With that, he turned away and walked back to his seat, handing his sword back to Axel as he went. "Polish, sharpen," he ordered by reflex. Not that the blade needed it, being as bright and keen as ever, but that was Axel's service. After a moment, he added, "Tomorrow. Go, enjoy yourself."

Sitting down, he waved a careless hand, and the music started back up and the roar of the festival resumed as if nothing at all had happened. Locage leaned in close, eyes following the hunched shoulders of the retreating plainsmen, four ahorse, one afoot; the crowd parted for them subtly, though it was otherwise as if the five men did not exist.

"That was a trifle harsh, no? What happens if he takes his men back to the plains, or raids one of the outlying villages under our protection?"

Sarj shrugged indifferently, eyes on a trio of western girls who had started an intricate three-way dance off to one side of the feast. "Either way, they would be in breach of their oaths. So I send Limper after them, he brings me their heads and swords, and that's an end to it. This way, there's the possibility that Harres will straighten up and fall into line, or that his men will leave him to join a more loyal clan. I hope they do, before his stain of filth spreads to their honors." Draining his cup, he held it up for a serving girl to fill with more mead. "What I really expect is that they will kill him or make him outcast, and then they'll cut each other to pieces to see who the next chief is. That's what happens when you lead a pack of bandits, instead of true warriors or a tribe. Or a tribe of tribes, as I do."

Frowning, Locage sipped from his own drink and peeled the crust from his bread pensively. Sarj nudged him and leaned in in his turn. "I will teach them, old tyrant, to live by my ways, the good ways. Not the old way, or the new way, but the good way. If I can teach a man like Riva Harres to act with pride and loyalty, or be shown to be teaching him, the rest will follow the lesson. Otherwise, it is always useful to have a rival everyone hates. Even his own men wouldn't fight me for him, do you see?"

The old westerner pressed his lips together, squinting at the younger man. Then he shook his head. "No. No I don't. But you're the Boss. Maybe that's why."

Grunting a laugh, Sarj got up once more, the revelers slowing and stopping as they took notice. "Go on, stuff yourselves!" he roared, raising his cup in toast to every one. "Get fat! You've earned it! You've all done a lot of fighting! Now we've come to the feasting! All I ask is that you men don't drink so much you lower the banner!" Raucous laughter and catcalls from the tribeswomen. "Leave some for the women, so that they can forget how ugly you are when you're humping away at them!" Cheers and howls from the men, and a flurry of renewed activity as men and women alike made grabs for their chosen partners before they could be claimed by someone else.

"I think that's my cue to go to bed," Locage chuckled, getting up and slapping a hand on Sarj's shoulder.

"Not so fast," interjected Ingva from the other side of Limper, springing to her feet and looping an arm around the older man's waist. "It's cold away from the fire. We wouldn't want those old bones to chill." She hauled him away, laughing at his feeble remonstrations about sin and vice. Her people of the north, much like Sarj's own, had very little to say on such matters that would agree with western sensibilities.