A Survivable Sacrifice

By the time his back starts to ache and his knees creak louder than his armour, a hero is expected to die in battle. It’s the polite thing to do. If he doesn’t, he risks his legend being forgotten, diminished by memories of a doddering geriatric warrior. A smart few ride off into the mists or risk a survivable sacrifice when they feel the effects of old ago. But heroes of legend always die before their time. Well, nearly always. 

Agatha Fillpot mused these things as she tapped her cane along the dirt path that meandered through the village of Avenglen. She paused as the dawn rolled leisurely down the evergreen mountainside and spilled the morning sun over the Avenglen valley. The average person might be awestruck by the scenery, but Agatha was a self-titled persistent old bint. For the third morning in a row, she looked to the foot of the mountain, before fixing her eyes on a small log cabin belonging to a Mr. Yondar Jagger. The structure had appeared on the outskirts of the village roughly around the same time Mr. Jagger had. He had been in Avenglen some 15 years and still kept mostly to himself. Naturally, that made him the subject of intense fascination.

There weren’t fortunes to be made in Avenglen. A handful of young folk came to raise their families, but their children rarely stayed (although they often returned empty-handed to ask their elders for more coin). Avenglen had little outlet for youthful energy. It was an unnervingly peaceful valley, with an unusual demographic skewed towards senior citizens. Mr. Jagger’s trips to market were the height of village excitement.

The man kept himself well. He had a full head of white hair, a muscular build, and a purposeful gait. Gaggles of elderly ladies fretted and twirled their hair like schoolgirls whenever the well-built gentleman wandered unwittingly into their midst, and without fail he found some excuse to be elsewhere.

But Agatha Fillpot prided herself on being a different sort. Like any upstanding resident of Avenglen, she gave to the poor and supported homegrown adventurers. She was a devoted attendee of the local over 70’s weaving club, the Whispy Willow Brigade, an organisation that churned out an astonishing number of gift baskets for warriors. Agatha heartily participated, but privately thought the enterprise rather silly. The baskets themselves were the gifts - primly made and rimmed with floral accents. Try as she might, Agatha couldn’t picture a muscular fighter skipping along the cobbles, swinging a basket with daisy applique, piled high with the bloody spoils of war. 

Agatha’s fiery hair had faded to a snow-streaked ginger, her varicose veins stuck out far enough that one might reasonably confuse them with blue jewellery, and she hadn’t been able to get her wedding ring off since her husband died. But her eyes were keen and she tapped a deadly looking cane with her everywhere she went. Since the death of her husband, Agatha had fully engaged in her greatest hobby - knowing everyone else’s business. At least she kept it close to her chest. Recently, she had made it something of a personal mission to tail Mr. Jagger wherever he went. 

And so Agatha was lying in a shrubbery with a good view of the little log house, minding her business and digging wildroots, when Mr. Jagger stepped outside, looked both ways rather furtively, and satisfied that no one was watching, locked the door behind him and walked at a brisk pace towards the mountain, disappearing into the pathless treeline. 

Agatha didn’t see herself as a snoopy dog, but she had recently taken a keen interest in this particular patch of wildroots. Agatha waited, digging the occasional wildroot and peering sporadically into the trees through the mother-of-pearl opera glass that she used for sewing. She waited all day, until dusk rolled down the mountainside and blanketed the cabin in darkness. But Mr. Jagger did not return. 

Agatha silently cursed and drew herself up on her cane. She’d promised herself long ago not to worry her children, but she'd stayed out too late. She ambled along familiar dirt paths edges by low stone walls and hedges. When she arrived back at her cottage, the sun had disappeared completely behind the mountain.

Her son Johan was waiting at the door. He tut-tutted, but the basket of wildroot quickly found its way into the stewpot.

“Where were you, mother?” he chided. “We were about to send a search party.”

“I found such a comfortable wildroot patch that sleep overtook me.” She stretched, her back creaking like an old cat’s.

Johan nodded sternly. “Best be careful, they say there are monsters about.”

“Aye son,” Agatha reached up and ruffled his hair, “you know what’s best.” Like her late husband, Johan never once left the village. She smiled sweetly and saw herself to bed. But her restless sleep was written with concern about the goings on of Mr. Jagger.

The next morning, straight after breakfast, Agatha made for her wildroot patch. A thin trail of smoke from the chimney mingled with the morning mist. Mr. Jagger had made it home. 

The wildroot patch was getting rather sparse. Agatha frowned and surveyed the mountain, which erupted from the valley at a steep incline. It was a hike that few old men could make, and Mr. Jagger seemed to make it nearly every day. 

Feeling bold, Agatha skirted around the cover of the bushes to the side of the cabin for a better look. As luck would have it, the shutters were open. She peered at Mr. Jagger as he stuffed something into a sack.

“Agatha, by goodness!” a shrill voice broke Agatha's concentration. She turned and the shutters thumped closed behind her.

“What are you doing, lurking in the bushes?” A rotund, elderly woman’s face crinkled up in a smile.

“Picking wildroot,” Agatha said quickly. Nessie Millyer glanced at the empty basket and pursed her lips.

“I’m glad we crossed paths,” Agatha added hastily, “we must discuss refreshments for the festival Lunday week.”

“Oh yes, the Willows are on feast duty this year,” Nessie’s eyes lit up. Agatha knew there was nothing the woman liked better than a good feast. On and on they talked about particulars. Out of corner of her eye, Agatha watched Mr. Jagger slip out of his front door and disappear into the trees.

Days passed quickly as the rural village prepared for the seasonal festivities, and Agatha found herself too busy to keep an eye on Mr. Jagger. She did spy him twice at market, and thought he bought rather too much food to sustain one person.

Lunday dawned, and every horn in Avenglen blared. The bards played music and the residents with enough life left to take to their feet shuffled about in something vaguely reminiscent of dancing. Mr. Jagger was conspicuously absent. Agatha excused herself and started on the path back to her family cottage, dipping out of sight to tread through the grass towards Mr. Jagger’s cabin.

It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, to be concerned with his wellbeing. It was the event of the season, and only one villager was absent. To enquire after his health was quite natural, even neighbourly. And so Agatha approached Mr. Jagger’s cabin, strode straight past the bushes where the ground now bore the imprint of her knees, and gave the door two quick raps of her cane. 

Nothing. 

She tried the handle. 

Locked.

Agatha looked to the treeline and then to the sky. Steam still rose from the chimney; the fire had been very recently quenched. The sun hadn’t travelled noticeably from where it was when the man usually set out. She hiked up her skirts, and made for the mountain.

Mr. Jagger’s boots had left a well stamped path through the tall grasses. At the foot of the mountain, the path became more difficult. Practically invisible. Practically, but not completely. 

Following only the faint outlines of bootprints, Agatha slowly pulled herself up the mountain from tree to tree, grasping on snarled roots, and leaning up against large trunks when her breath was gone. She had to stop often, but there were plenty of full grown trees to lean against, and she was finally rewarded by coming to a worn mountain path. It ran alongside a brook, narrow and steep, but was a path nonetheless. At least she could plant her cane and walk more easily. She was leaning on it more heavily than usual. Moss covered trees towered over her as she continued her ascent, following the babbling water upwards towards its source. 

At last she came upon a clearing. A plateau above which a waterfall trickled down. Someone had made camp here, and left a log for sitting by the remains of a campfire. Then she heard it. A deep, guttural growl echoing somewhere behind the waterfall.

Agatha backed slowly towards a large tree, as an enormous, furry creature, came shuffling out through the waterfall on two legs. She slipped behind the tree and fell totally silent, slowing her breath as she felt the ground shudder under the weight of this creature. She reached for her cane as the beast snuffed its way around the clearing, trying to scent her.

Agatha was fairly confident that she was downwind, but she stayed flat to the tree as she ran her fingers over her cane in a very specific pattern. She held it dangerously close to her chest as it began to form into a slender blade with a crimson pommel. She waited. The element of surprise was crucial. And it still might not be enough. She cursed her ageing bones as an old excitement pumped through her veins. She could hear the beast rounding the tree. She raised her blade- 

“HALT!” Agatha’s wrists were caught mid-flight by firm but wrinkled hands, and she spun instinctively to face her assailant. Mr. Jagger stood over her. He did not hurt her, but when he tried to make her drop her blade, it became clear that Agatha would let her own wrist be broken before she would give it up. Mr. Jagger peered with confused recognition.

“HALT!” he commanded again, this time in the direction of the beast, who grumbled a moment, “oh for the gods’ sake Memur, just drop it.” the beast stomped back towards its den.

The momentary distraction was all Agatha needed. With a crick and a flick of the wrist, she freed herself and backed away from Mr. Jagger, her blade pointed at his chest.

“Who are you?” she asked. “And what is that?” she pointed at the long haired bipedal creature who seemed to have flopped down on the log, where it sat with arms crossed by the charred campfire remains.

“The Blade of Surprisal.” Mr. Jagger said thoughtfully. “Only one person’s ever been said to wield it.”

Well, he certainly talked like an ageing hero, Agatha thought.

“You haven’t answered my question, dear.” she continued.

Mr. Jagger raised his thick arms most of the way above his head. With arms like those, he didn’t need a sword, although she saw he carried an axe on his back. He chuckled as studied her.

“I am Yondar Jagger… as much as you are Agatha Fillpot.” he replied. She lowered the blade a bit.

“I was born a Fillpot.” she said testily.

“And I wasn’t born yesterday. That sword of yours belonged to the Ruby Slipper. My party was sent to search for it after she-”

“And how would you know all that?” She snapped at him, “About Slippers and swords and the like, unless you were-” she racked her memories, but the years before Avenglen had blurred. Mr. Jagger was no familiar face, except for the one she saw on market days in the village, but he had a familiar cadence, like so many faces of heroes she’d met before.

“Barbarian.” she said at last.

He grinned, and Agatha saw a gap where one of his teeth had been knocked out.

“That’s a hurtful term Miss Slipper, I’ve not raged in fifteen years. Been working on my anger issues.”

The beast growled and Agatha shifted her blade to point at it.

“Memur won’t hurt you.” Mr. Jagger continued. She backed away slightly, but was moving towards a downward slope. This was not terrain for a retired woman to trifle with. Agatha dropped the blade to her side.

“Who were you known as then, Mr. Jagger?”

He sighed. “I’m just a legend who found a way out. And you?”

Surely he was Rathgar the Strong. Magic or not, her blade would be a toothpick to Rathgar. Agatha smiled and rubber her hand over the pommel counterclockwise. The wooden handle elongated and enveloped the keen edge of the blade, transforming it back into a cane.

“I’m just a persistent old bint who settled down, Rathgar.”

He nodded and dropped his hand to shake hers.

“Can I call you Ruby?”

She shook her head.

“You know how the Ruby Slipper got her name?” she asked. He scratched his head and appeared to be thinking hard.

“She wore red shoes?” he replied.

 “Her enemies didn’t know they were dead until they saw blood seeping into their slippers. Please, call me Agatha.”

Agatha looked at the creature, at least one and a half males tall.

“And that is Memur, did you say?” Her curiosity overtook her, and she shined her sewing eyeglass a moment on her apron before pointing it at the creature. He raised a furry index finger as if to make a point, but when he tried to speak,

“Meeeeeemmmmmurrrrrr,” he said sadly. 

The barbarian scratched his head again. “Best I can make out, he’s a wizard that got himself stuck like that. Bloody useful though.”

“Was he your… survivable sacrifice?”

To avoid the whole dying in battle bit, some ageing heroes will disappear into the mists. Other, more theatrical types will hire a few local bards and create a wild public spectacle; generally, a battle with a great beast on the edge of a cliff. By grappling the monster over the cliffside into the river below, the hero assures their place in local lore. 

The barbarian nodded cheerfully, “Did us both a favour really. Townsfolk wanted to stick him with points, I found him in a cave trying to do a wordcrosser puzzle. We had a great show of a wrestling match, then boff.” 

He brought his hand down on his fist, “straight over the cliff’s edge and into the river we went. Bit of a swim, a nice hike, and here we are.”

A nice hike halfway across the empire, Agatha thought. Memur growled, and scratched at the sack that had been hidden from view behind the log. His furry fingers didn't seem particularly good at opening things. Rathgar strode over, pulled the sack open, and Memur growled his thanks and took off behind the waterfall with an armload of vegetables. 

“He’s vegetarian of all damn things.” Rathgar shook his head. “Ain’t no one that terrifies countryfolk got any reason to be a plant eater.” The barbarian gestured to sit, and Agatha settled in on the log.

“Long time ago, emperor hired us to get that stick of yours back.” he gestured to her cane. “Wanted the Blade of Surpisal back after his favourite murderer was killed. Makes sense we couldn’t find the killer, seeing as ye did yourself in.”

“Well, you know, when opportunity knocks…” Agatha said sheepishly, but she wasn’t forthcoming with details. Agatha had a lifetime of keeping most everything close to her chest.

“Avenglen. So you settled here, eh? Musta been at least 40 years ago. Been wondering why there’s no crime about these parts. You taken care of it?” he jabbed her playfully in the ribs, producing a groan.

“Mr. Jagger,” she said sharply, “Whatever you think I am, please remember that I am still an octogenarian.” she gave him her best withering look as she held her aching side.

“I haven’t been taking care of anything here but my own family.”

“Sure. But somebody has been. There hasn’t been so much as a stray wolf

wandering through town since I been here.” 

Just then, Memur emerged from the cave and presented two wooden bowls with something roughly chopped and steamed that smelled earthy and fragrant and resembled a meal.

“Next time put some meat in it old man!” the barbarian grumbled. But he dug in just the same.

Agatha chewed thoughtfully. He wasn’t wrong. The attraction of this particular valley was the distinct peacefulness. But the Ruby Slipper knew that peace belonged to those who were protected by the biggest stick. 

“You think there are others?” she asked.

Rathgar pondered the question. Slowly, he replied. “Well, we’re both here, aren’t we? Took you 15 years to find me. Gotta be others who were looking for a quiet place to settle down.”

Agatha’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Mr. Molewhyte? Or Mr. Millencud?”

“Maybe Millencud. Don’t like the look of him. No man his age oughta have a moustache that black. It’s unnatural.”

They chewed in silence a few more minutes, and when they had finished eating, Agatha put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Jagger, we’d best be getting back to town.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. 

“After all, I’ve been gone an awful while to fetch you. And you can’t miss the festival. It’s such a wonderful chance to get to know all of your neighbours, all in one place.”

Agatha folded her arm into his, and led him back towards the mountain path. Mr. Jagger nodded slowly, a smile starting to spread across his face.

“No couldn’t miss it.” He said, 

“wouldn’t be… neighbourly.”