The Keep in the Marsh

CHAPTER ONE The waning sunlight emboldened the dreary clouds above as cold winds and a chilling drizzle heralded the coming storm. In truth, even a hurricane would fail to smother the fire Thomas planned to ignite. “Ever in my thoughts, Mom and Dad,” Thomas said as he tossed a torch through the open doorway to the cabin in which he’d spent his entire life until that moment. Seventeen years of life shielded by the stout, timbered walls of the 30- by 40-foot structure his father had built years before the son’s birth. His father had been a carpenter, a good one, and had erected the structure so that no storm would destroy it. That fact only complicated Thomas’s actions now. Thomas loaded the cabin’s main entryway with firewood coated in lantern oil. With but that one torch, the cabin erupted in flames that would soon eradicate the structure and any remaining residue of the plague that claimed his parents and most everyone else who called the Village of Seneca home. The rain was soon falling steadily. Thomas, hooded and cloaked, watched as the flames lapped up the sides of his home. The crackling of the flames proved unnerving as they signified the death of his parents as well as the victory over the plague. Well, the other survivors called it a victory; Thomas was not so convinced. The fire-clenched cabin soon caved in on itself, the roof supports failing sooner than Thomas anticipated, which actually made things easier. Knowing the fire would be contained by the storm and unable to reach the woodlands, he said his final goodbye to his parents. Though he’d buried them in the village cemetery, he still sensed his parents’ presence even now, forever connected to the lands that sustained them. “The world will always remember you both,” Thomas whispered before turning his back to the cabin and marching off east to God knew where. He recognized he would get only so far before the eye of the storm hit, but he vowed to walk until he was beyond the borders of the village. At the time he set the fire, the remaining villagers were leading a half dozen wagons south to find a new place to call home. Thomas wished them well, but he wanted to free himself of village memories. The burden was too much to bear. He needed a fresh start. “To the east, Lad,” his father always said. “To the east be adventure. Mountains, swamps, rivers and adventure.” His parents loved a quiet life, one of routine, safety, and stability. Thomas had treasured that, too, but the plague changed everything. “I will not let this world forget my parents,” Thomas vowed, and places of adventure, danger and the unknown offered a path to achieve this new goal. “Everything I do, I do for them.” Then, before departing, Thomas cut a lock of his coal-black hair and buried it not far from the cabin. “A piece of me will always be here, Mom and Dad.” Traveling a league beyond Seneca’s eastern border, Thomas found a copse of evergreens that provided a good break from the growing wind. There he pitched his canvas tent, which was really just a canvas tarp that he tied between two trees. With the ground saturated and the night air cold, it wasn’t until he set a small fire that Thomas felt any comfort. Snacking on some venison jerky and hard biscuits, he sated his hunger if but for just a little while. He would soon run out of rations so he knew securing food ranked as his highest concern. Glenwood was the nearest eastern village and his current destination. Yet, his stay there would be brief; just enough time to secure food and perhaps some money as he’d given every copper and silver coin he’d had to the other Seneca survivors. Of course, the brigands could not have known that. He woke to the patter of raindrops against his tent. Wrapped tight in a wool blanket, he shivered as the ground had grown cold, his campfire having long since burned out. Thomas was considering options for his continuing trek when the three men appeared. He’d heard them traipsing among the woods and had hoped they’d move past him without seeing the tent. No such luck. “Look over there, a tent,” one of the men said before their footfalls grew louder as they drew closer. Emerging from the tent, still shrouded in his blanket, Thomas looked at the travelers. All three were older than him, by at least 10 years. One was heavyset, while the other two were thin, gaunt even, looking as if a stiff breeze would knock them to the ground. “Morning, stranger,” the heavyset man said as he unsheathed his short-bladed sword, which looked more like a machete than a weapon of war. “Certainly a fine morning to be outdoors, wouldn’t you agree?” “A bit chilly for my tastes,” Thomas said as he dropped his blanket and watched the other men unsheath daggers with rusty blades. “We’re collecting taxes on behalf of the lord mayor,” the heavyset man said, stopping within feet of Thomas. He smirked at the thought of any mayor sending forth tax collectors dressed in such a mismatch of leather jerkins, well-worn boots, cotton trousers, and wool cloaks beyond threadbare. “I don’t have any money, just my smith’s hammer, a tent and my blanket.” “You village folk always got somethin’ hidden,” the nearest of the gaunt men said, pointing his dagger in Thomas’s direction. “I say we search him.” Holding his palms up and out towards the brigands, Thomas slowly lowered himself into a crouched position before reaching behind him for his hammer. Once he had clutched it, he rose and extended his arm as if offering the hammer as tribute. The heavyset man took a step forward unwittingly. How could he possibly understand Thomas’s anger, which was still raw and overwhelming? Once the brigand’s left foot extended within a yard of his outstretched arm, Thomas threw down his hammer, with its four-pound weight, solidly hitting the top of Heavyset’s foot. “Ahhh!” the man exclaimed as pain coursed through his body and he collapsed to the forest floor. He couldn’t even grasp the thought of ordering his companions to strike Thomas dead; they were similarly stymied, providing Thomas time to reclaim his hammer before slamming its head into Heavyset’s right knee. Thomas’s rage took over from there. First casting his hammer into the nearest dagger-wielding brigand’s chest, he scooped up Heavyset’s dropped blade while the brigand screamed and rolled about on the forest floor. The last brigand standing fled. As for the dagger-wielding “tax collector” whose chest caught the hammer, he was gasping for breath as he lay prone on his back. “Try to breath slow and deep,” Thomas advised as he picked up his hammer before walking to his shelter. It took but a few minutes to take down his tent and gather his belongings. Once set, Thomas walked over to Heavyset who was now simply groaning. “If I see any of you again, I will kill you,” Thomas said bluntly before tossing Heavyset’s sword into the brush. His anger now somewhat assuaged, Thomas hiked on, putting the brigands out of his mind and keeping his cobalt-blue eyes focused on the trail to Glenwood.