Swinsweg arrives at Cove

[Danichta]

“Swinny run, run! Don’t look back!” her cheeks were rivers of tears as she looked up at him with adoration and dread. There was physical pain in trying to pull himself away from her and Swinsweg could feel his heart pounding with torment inside his chest. “Please Swinny, you must!” and the young lass pushed him away with all her strength, out the back door of the musty tavern and into the night. Swinsweg wasn’t aware of his leg pounding the dirt road as he ran from the tavern, his focus was on the shouts of town guards in the background harassing and questioning. Kiramas would be all right, she was out of danger now thanks to Swinsweg.

Dew blanketed his hair and clothing, causing the Bard to wake suddenly from nightmare filled sleep. He blinked wearily into the dawn and slowly got to a sitting position. The previous days events unwound in his mind and Swinsweg blinked back tears, realizing he’d have to go into hiding…. For a long time.

It had all started a few months prior when Swinsweg had begun singing and performing regularly at the little tavern. As always he was ridiculed for his effeminate nature, but the local drunks had come to appreciate his clever songs and ability to drink with the best of them. It didn’t take many drinks before the gossip of the town, as it always did, reached the Bard’s ears. This time it was different, however, the stories were darker and the characters all too real.

“The tales you spin are too brutal to be true!” Swinsweg argued one night with a regular bar patron.

“They’s true I tells ye, ye daft dandy! Why any one nay afraid o’ tha’ wicked Vicar’ll tell the’s true! Aye? Aye?!” the drunkard pleaded with his friends who suddenly had found their mugs fascinating.

“Aye, ‘tis true, Swinny. It ‘appened t’ me,” came the soft voice of Kiramas, one of several wenches employed at the tavern. A hush fell over everyone and only the rain could be heard on the roof.

Swinsweg felt his mind sober as he realized the implication of her confession. She continued bravely though in a hushed tone.

“Th’ Vicar an’ his men come te’ yer house loike. They ‘ccuses yer family o’ wytchcraft an worse. While th’ Vicar damns all yer family te the realm o’ the Guardian an back, ‘is men scour yer ‘ouse an loot everythin’ ye dinnay ‘ave nailed down. Fam’ly heirlooms nay e’en safe loike!” This caused a murmur of dismay from the crowd. Swinsweg’s throat had gone dry and his lute was sliding from his lap. He had grown fond of Kiramas and was saddened at her misfortune.

“An tha’ ain’t e’en tha’ half o’ it. Then…” she trailed off for a moment and looked down at her calloused hands, “Then they takes yer youngin’s away, lad an’ lass aloike… an perform unspeakable thin’s t’em. B’lieve me… I know.” Again a silence fell over the tavern. Swinsweg felt a lump in his throat and tried to fight it back.

About a week passed after Kiramas shared her story, there was little mention of it in the tavern but neither was there the usual merriment. On a cold night Swinsweg was stretched out on one of the back tables tuning his lute when the front door burst open to reveal the Vicar himself, with three burly churchmen behind him like goons worthy of Buccaneer’s Den. Swinsweg sat up immediately and looked them over with dread.

The Vicar had walked with a humble and demure aura up to the tavern bar. “A water for myself, in a clean glass if it isn’t too much trouble” he ordered the barkeep before surveying the tavern’s occupants. His eyes landed on Kiramas and there was a twitch of a smile on the old Vicar’s lips that spoke of memory, and the blush to Kiramas’s usually proud features sealed the suspicion into fact.

Swinsweg felt anger as he’d never felt before rise up in his veins and he sat up loudly. Everyone in the tavern looked at him. Before he could say anything the door had opened again, this time to Lord Fauthston, the major landholder of the area and benefactor of the Church. He occasionally dropped into the tavern, the only one in the hamlet, so his arrival was not unexpected but of a most curious coincidence. Unsure of what to do, Swinsweg looked down at his lute…. And began to play a song he had never heard before, a song of sadness and defeat, and in his beautiful perfect tenor he sang a song from his heart:

Blessed be the Avatar and His holy men;
For in their grace is our hiding den.
May they save our souls and redeem us,
We simple folk who know no better,
We simple folk who know no better,
May the Church save our souls and redeem us.

Blessed be the Avatar and His preachers,
For they guide us and play our teachers,
May they save our souls and redeem us,
For they should all know better,
For they should all know better,
May the Churchmen be better than us.

Blessed be the Avatar and His wisdom,
He sees all that happens in His kingdom,
When the Friars steal and cheat us,
We can hope for no better,
We can hope for no better,
Unless a kind Lord should help us.

Blessed be the Avatar and his judgment,
Let’s hope that the Friars have repentance,
Our children’s innocence they take from us,
They really should know better,
They really should know better,
Unless the Lord should help us.
Unless the Lord should help us.

The tavern was silent during his entire song, and as soon he was finished, the Lord’s eyes fell on the Vicar and his men. Everyone could feel the truth of the song. With a yell full of hell and fire, the Vicar lunged at Swinsweg and the Bard tumbled to the floor and scurried away under a table. He knew little else except the sounds of the battle in the tavern between Lord Fauthston’s men and the Vicar’s men.

Swinsweg got kicked all over his body as he scurried blindly until a small hand grasped his and pulled him through the musty back rooms of the tavern to the back door. Kiramas pulled Swinsweg close to whisper to him, “Run!”