Chapter 8: The Weak.
On the mountain path, over a dozen heavy supply wagons stood parked. Open beds covered in dark burlap hid what seemed valuable cargo.
Below, on the riverbank clearing, a temporary camp sprawled. Seven ragged, clumsy women hunched, hauling items.
About thirty Degbrun garrison soldiers lounged or stood idly, arms around weapons. Rusty pauldrons under cloaks gleamed dully with morning dew, like moldy coins.
Renat entered the camp with militia captain Doru. An officer approached at once, face official and appraising.
“Holy Lord bless, Captain.”
Renat extended a small hand from her cloak, palm up, revealing a bulging coin pouch. Her childlike face wore a perfectly sweet smile, mismatched with her appearance. “Anything needed? Some last year’s ale left. Someone will send it.”
The officer blinked. He had pegged the burly middle-aged militiaman as leader. Not this apparent eleven- or twelve-year-old girl.
“Renat, retired third-tier Lantern Bearer.”
Renat ignored his surprise, curtsied gracefully, smile mild. “Honored to guide you to the lead wall.” She shifted cautiously. “But suggest leaving extras but wagons. Mountain path is rough.”
At “retired Lantern Bearer,” his eyes dropped to her open left palm. A faint mark clear.
Carelessness vanished. Utmost gravity. He knelt on one knee, carefully took her small hand, barely brushed lips in minimal salute.
“They… all subwomen?” Renat’s gaze swept the slow, numb women in the corner, settling on uniform ghostly green eyes. “They look weak. Can they handle heavy work?”
“Yes, many old ones. Usually rough chores at Degbrun Monastery.”
The officer rose, following her look, lips curling scornful. “Good to use waste. Haul at the wall. Rest assured, hot soup and a whip—they’ll work all night!”
To prove it, he waved casually. A distant soldier kicked over a slower subwoman without mercy.
“Holy Lord have mercy. Better feed them full first. Hidden resentment risks unforeseen issues, especially on lead wall repairs.”
Renat watched the stumbling, silent rise, brow twitching faintly. She turned to the captain. “Doru, tell the village: send grass-powder bread and vegetable soup.”
Black Domain bulbgrass roots, starchy, ground into famine staple grass powder. Mixed one-to-one with flour, baked bread was coarse but filling, long-keeping.
Iceberry’s annual explorations gathered plenty. Even in better years, grass-powder bread cut winter grain use.
“Holy Lord merciful, thank you.”
Soon, stone-hard black grass-powder loaves and clear vegetable soups distributed. Each receiving subwoman bowed deep, voice faint and humble.
“Hm… you, how old?”
Last loaf given. The straw-haired, dull-eyed subwoman’s face—gaunt yet refined—stirred unreal feeling in Renat.
The subwoman retreated half-step, head lower, voice mosquito-thin. “Holy Lord above, fifty-two… But, but I’m strong. I can move lead pillars!”
“Hm. If repairs finish on time, I don’t mind two extra crowns hardship pay each.”
Renat nodded, keeping cool distance, tone warning clear. “But no mistakes. Or… improper thoughts.”
The old subwoman trembled, nodded hard, no slack.
Subwomen clutched bowls and bread, knelt on rocky beach, faced east, murmured pre-meal prayer softly. Then rose ghost-like, slipped silently into dense forest depth, avoiding eyes to eat.
“Church Decree Four, Law of Solitary Eating: Though unclean, may enjoy fullness. Subwomen eat in secret, not public, not with others, lest gossip spread misfortune.”
“Never trust their discipline. Just cover.”
The officer weighed Renat’s heavy secret pouch, expression easing toward the forest subwomen. “They must work harder than most to atone a bit to the Holy Lord.”
Renat said nothing. Her gaze quietly followed the fifty-two-year-old.
…
Deep in the forest, beyond garrison sight, a small unseen stir unfolded.
“Holy Lord above… this… is mine!” The old subwoman hunched, voice desperately low, pleading, reached bony hand for her half-loaf snatched.
The young subwoman who took it wore a mud-stained, ragged dark-green cloak, face unchanged, lips curling cold and mean.
“Old hag near death, why eat so much? Waste Holy Lord’s grace!”
Voice iced. She slapped the soup bowl from the old one’s hands.
Soup splashed, soaking leaves and dirt. Pitiful veg bits stuck in mud. The old subwoman shook hard, stared blankly, eyes dead gray.
Nearest subwomen shrank, clutched their food tight, glanced away fearful. None spoke for her.
“Tola… calm.”
A tall subwoman approached silently, pretended to pick the spilled bowl, eyes like wary meerkat scanning bushes twenty meters off.
Tola caught the warning glance, rage vanished, replaced by timid cringe. She squatted behind a thick tree, nibbled grass-powder bread small bites, as if cherishing.
Bushes rustled. Cary pushed through, Maren behind, puzzled.
The youth’s gaze swept the group calmly, fixed on the conflict spot.
The curled old subwoman staring at spilled soup suddenly reminded Cary of age seven: the wretched subwoman at the village gate, withered in snow.
“Got food?”
Cary glanced at the girl beside him, asked soft. Maren blinked, checked her belt, pulled nuts—her snack.
Cary took them, didn’t hand directly. Bent, placed on clean fallen leaf.
Air froze. Subwomen’s eyes focused: surprise, fear, faint envy for the old one. None dared meet Cary or Maren’s gaze, all looked down.
Cary’s eyes shifted again, locked on the young subwoman half-hidden behind tree, pretending to chew.
“Cary?” Maren nudged his arm, waved before his eyes. “You okay? Think I heard Renat calling outside.”
Subwomen bowed heads, hurried silent from the oppressive woods.
Cary seemed deaf to Maren, stood fixed, eyes on retreating backs.
“Cary!”
“Oh… nothing.”
Cary snapped back, turned slowly, gaze on Maren’s face, asked sudden. “Maren, is the strong bullying weak shameful, or… the weak bullying weaker despicable?”
Maren froze, stared blank at the youth, shook head instinctively. “I… don’t know…”