Chapter 1: Serfdom

The crowing of a cockerel roused Rian from his sleep, and he blinked his eyes, the morning light that filtered in through his windows making him squint. He rose from his mattress and stretched with a grunt, scratching his back where some of the straw stuffing had pricked him during the night. Still nursing stiff muscles from the prior day’s toil, he swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet landing on the cold floor.

It was a humble home, as all homes of serfs were. The floor was beaten dirt lined with straw in places, its walls formed from stacked stones with a covering of pale daub for insulation. The low roof was made from thatch, with a hole at its apex where smoke from the stone hearth in the center of the room could escape, the ceiling crossed by rough wooden beams that formed a lattice. Many of them were laden with hanging baskets where food and other belongings could be stored, keeping them out of reach of vermin.

The cramped space was sparsely furnished with only the bare essentials, all crudely carved from wood. There was a trestle table currently strewn with a few tools and dishes, some stools and benches for seating, and a few chests for what little he had of value. The room would have been larger had it not been split in half by a dividing wall. On the other side was an animal pen for the pigs where they could be kept sheltered, their grunting and grumbling rising in volume as they heard their master moving around.

It was a brisk morning, and his first order of business was stoking the hearth in the center of the home, unearthing a few lingering embers with his poker. With some errant kindling, it was enough to get a small fire going – sufficient to warm the water for his morning wash. He filled a tin pot from a barrel in the corner of the room and set it on the stone, then slipped on some leather shoes and pushed open his front door with a creak of rusted hinges.

Rian shivered as the cool morning breeze tugged at his linens. August was coming to an end, and winter was beginning to rear its ugly head again. Before him, the rolling fields stretched to the horizon, a few other homesteads just visible in the distance. They were broken up by small coppices and larger stretches of woodland, the sky above them gray and overcast. As a serf, Rian worked the Lord’s land and was responsible for three of the fields, planting crops on a seasonal rotation. They had already harvested the barley earlier in the year, and the wheat before that, leaving the great field looking empty and barren. It was turnip season now.

Rian hated turnips.

He took a left and checked on the chicken coop beside his dwelling, briefly fighting off an angry rooster, then opened the door to release the pigs into their adjacent pen. The three animals came charging out, eager for their morning feed, and Rian took a few minutes to fill their trough and water them. He scattered some seed for the chickens, then returned to his home, finding the water ready.

It was warm enough to stave off the cold, and he washed himself with a damp rag, then began to dress for the day’s work. He pulled on his scratchy woolen tunic and pants over his linen undergarments, fastening them about his waist with a leather belt. Wool was a hardy material, and it would help to keep him warm during these cooler months.

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and despite his meager means, it was best to start his labors with a full belly. His meal today consisted of slices of heavy, stale rye bread from two days prior. Bread was cooked in communal bakeries in the nearby village, and he rarely ate it fresh every day. Wheat bread was tastier, but that was usually reserved for the Lord and the higher strata of society. Along with it, he ate some cheese and an apple, his drink a large tankard of ale. The water from the barrel was for bathing and cleaning, not for consumption. Ale was much safer, and a source of nutrients in itself.

Meat was not usually a part of his diet. Chicken and pork were sometimes available depending on the season, as was fish from the nearby river, but beef and game were beyond his means. The coppices and woods were rife with wild game. He had seen rabbits, pheasants, and even fallow deer with regular frequency as he worked the fields. That land was reserved for the Lord, however. In times of scarcity, some of the serfs took the calculated risk of poaching, but the price of being caught was a steep one. The Lord of the manor was not a kindly or forgiving man, and nor was his bailiff prone to spontaneous acts of charity. The bailiff’s job was to manage the serfs in their work, and the man seemed to take a sick pleasure in it.

With his hunger sated, Rian gathered his tools and prepared to leave. Before heading out, he took a moment to pour out the leftover water from his wash basin on the small herb garden just outside the house. It was one of his few small pleasures, where he grew herbs and vegetables to enhance his meals. There was parsley, dill, mint, chives, fennel, sage, rosemary, thyme, basil, and even a few greens like spinach and cress. It wasn’t merely grains that he knew how to tend, and he had become adept at making the most of what he had. That done, he made his way over to the field.

The earth had been plowed the day before, and his task today would be sowing the turnip seeds – a most unenviable task even in favorable weather. The cold had left the ground hard and difficult to work with, and weeds had already taken root since the harvesting of the barley, making the work even more tedious. The hardy root vegetables would grow in poor soil and tolerate colder weather while the other fields renewed ready for the next year’s planting. They would sustain the villagers throughout the winter, but they were a bitter vegetable, even for someone of his culinary resourcefulness.

As he crouched and pulled up a handful of weeds, digging at the cold earth with a trowel, he glanced up at the hill in the distance. The Lord’s manor rested atop it, tall and grand, its stone battlements dwarfing the settlements that surrounded it. From atop its high towers, colorful banners bearing the Lord’s sigil fluttered in the wind. There was a great wooden wall that acted as another layer of defense, further isolating it from the peasantry below.

It was hard not to look at its grandeur and feel as bitter as the turnips he would soon be eating. Rian was not a slave in name, but his fate was tied to that of the land. The Lord of the manor owned the fields that he worked, and so he owned Rian, in a sense. Lords might come and go, but as long as the land remained, so would Rian. As well as being responsible for tending the fields, he also had to pay taxes to the Lord in the form of a portion of his harvest – a third of his takings. The church took another third in tithes, leaving him with barely enough to survive. It was just sufficient to keep him alive and working, ensuring that he could never earn what he needed to buy his freedom or improve his situation.

The serfs lived in the outlying hovels attached to the fields, while the free peasants who were not bound to the land lived in far nicer homes in the village, along with craftspeople and merchants. They were able to sell their produce to other settlements and own the land they worked, and they could move around as they pleased without needing permission from their Lord. Deeper still, behind the wall that encircled the Lord’s demesne, lived the nobles and the clergy. They were at the top of the pile, living in relative luxury, fed by the labor of the farmers who toiled beneath them. In exchange, they offered protection and stability – so it was claimed.

There were many such fiefs and estates scattered about the countryside, each one headed by a Lord or a Knight who could be called upon to defend the realm and serve the King in times of need. Those times seemed sparse to Rian.

Despondent, he turned his eyes back to the ground, pushing a tiny seed deep into a furrow left by the plow.

Rian rose from his crouched position, standing up and straightening his back with a grimace. The day was half spent, and the sun was at its apex – not that he could see much of it through the gray clouds that hung over him. He had progressed about halfway down the long strip of field, and he would be expected to have the planting finished by sundown, lest he face the wrath of the bailiff. He would break for his midday meal soon, but it would be unwise to tarry. There was much yet to do, even after his toil was complete.

As a young man, he had not yet taken a wife, and he had nobody to share in his domestic duties. There were animals to take care of, clothes to wash, and much cleaning to do before he could rest.

He turned in the direction of his house, anticipating a nice warm bowl of peas pottage, but something was amiss. The sky above his thatch roof was dark – darker than even the most violent of storm clouds, a plume of black smoke rising from the horizon. He followed it down to the towering battlements of the manor, quickly realizing that it was ablaze.

Smoke and flame billowed from its narrow windows, and the once proud banners now hung charred and tattered, the fine stone marred by soot. It was too far away for sound to carry to the fields, but judging by the plumes of smoke rising from the settlements surrounding the castle, there was some manner of battle going on.

Running now, he crossed the three hundred feet or so to his home, moving around the pig pen and chicken coop for a better view. From this new vantage, he could see figures moving in the distance some three miles away. The wall surrounding the manor hid much of what was happening behind it from sight, but there were people running through the nearby village streets, some of them fleeing from buildings whose thatch roofs had been set alight.

Could it be bandits? Was some rival kingdom attacking the estate? Save for a contingent of guards and perhaps a couple of Knights, there was no standing army to protect the manor – no host that could fend off a powerful foe. In times of war, the common folk would be asked to take up arms and defend the realm, but Rian had received no such summons. As he wondered whether he should fetch a sickle or a hoe and try to help, he spotted a large figure moving between the houses.

It was a head or two taller than the average man, and far wider, with broad shoulders and arms that rippled with muscle. What detail he could make out at such a distance told of someone clad in crude armor, with heavy pauldrons of iron, their features obscured behind a beaten helmet. They were wearing leather and mail beneath the sparse plate, but where their skin was visible, it bore a telltale olive green hue.

These were not mere bandits, but Orcs – something far worse. How had they found their way so deep into the Kingdom without being stopped by the King’s army? The fief in which Rian toiled was situated inland – far from the reach of roving bands of savages who might threaten border towns. At least, that was what he had been told.

As he watched, the armored figure raised a war axe above its head, shaking the weapon at a pair of nearby guards in matching tabards that bore the Lord’s sigil. The men dropped the swords they had been holding and fled in a panic, disappearing from view behind a building. A second Orc appeared behind the first, the two savages knocking their helmets together in what might be amusement or triumph, jostling one another. They were moving through the settlement, sending the villagers scattering, kicking down doors and putting torches to the thatched roofs.

“Didn’t much care for that lot anyway,” Rian muttered to himself, sitting down on a stump as he watched the manor burn.

A few minutes later, he stepped inside to prepare some pottage, reemerging with a bowl and a mug of ale in hand. He returned to his seat on the stump, taking a long draw as he watched the fires spread. From what he could see, the Orc raiders appeared to be ransacking the village, emerging from the dwellings carrying chests and sacks of grain over their shoulders. The manor was all but engulfed now, the flames raging so viciously that one of the stone towers collapsed, falling into its own footprint with a billow of smoke and dust that swept over the wooden wall like a wave.

Perhaps Rian should have felt fear, or perhaps he should have sought a place to hide, but he had nothing of value for the Orcs to steal. They probably wouldn’t even come this way – wouldn’t even bother with the ramshackle houses far outside the economic center of the fief. As he watched one of the hulking Orcish warriors chase off a group of wealthy traders, he considered his options.

No Lord and no Church meant no taxes or tithes, and he could live off the land and more if he was able to keep his entire harvest to himself. He could also hunt in the woods, fish in the river, and do as he pleased. The King would send another Lord or noble to rebuild and reclaim the fief eventually, but how long might that take? Rian could have a couple of years of complete freedom and prosperity ahead of him.

There was no hurry to complete his planting before sundown, so he stayed put, finishing his lunch and sipping his ale. A few hours passed, with much of the village reduced to cinders and its inhabitants driven out. As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, the smoke painting the sky crimson, Rian spotted a figure running across the open fields towards him from the direction of the town. It was the bailiff – he would recognize that portly frame and fancy hat anywhere. The man was clutching a small chest under one hairy arm, his face pouring with sweat, a vision of terror etched upon his expression. Audibly panting, he ran straight past Rian without even seeming to see him, passing within throwing distance of the stump. Rian turned in place to watch as the bailiff ran off into the great field, heading for a patch of forest in the distance.

Chuckling to himself, Rian took a swig of his ale, then turned back around. His amusement was short-lived. Pursuing the bailiff was a trio of hulking figures, hot on the man’s heels, tarnished metal and green skin glinting in the dim light. It was too late – they had already seen Rian sitting on his stump. With a resigned sigh, he took another drink, waiting for them to cross the field. The three Orcs thundered to a stop with a clatter of armor some ten paces away, brandishing axes and spears as they squared up for a fight.

Now that they were closer, he could get a better look at them. Serfs were not scholars, and all he knew about their kind was what he had heard in passing – namely that they were a savage, tribal people from foreign lands that bordered the Kingdom in the South. All three of them were seven feet tall or more, with shoulders twice as broad as his own, the mismatched pauldrons that were strapped over them bulking out their profile even more.