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Dawn came to the land of Ghoth
wrapped and shrouded like an intruder. Thin, pale fingers of sunlight
edged warily over the restless eastern seas and, like a thief, slowly
crept into the shadows of the mountains. Black clouds rolled and rumbled
overhead. A strong wind rose suddenly, whipping and cracking the limp
standards upon the battlements into a mocking applause for the morning.
In a wide courtyard high above the shadowy plain of Hôr, a small bent
figure frowned into the threatening sky and hastened down a short flight
of worn sandstone steps. Before him rose the infamous Citadel of Solon’s
Keep; tier upon tier of mighty stone that stabbed the filtering dawn like
a barbed spear. He ran quickly across the wide slabs and clambered
clumsily up the steep Citadel steps. As he reached the broad oak doors, a
dull drumbeat sounded the changing of the watch in the barracks below.
Rain began to splash heavily on the ancient paving. Taking hold of the
great bronze handles, he heaved the heavy doors open with an effort. Then,
after turning his head to curse the sky one last time, he squeezed through
the narrow opening and into the hall beyond. As the doors closed
ponderously behind him, long tongues of cruel lightning leapt unbidden
from the black clouds and struck the nearby mountains. Rain hurled itself
violently at the mute stone. Wind whipped the dark towers mercilessly and
great peals of thunder ripped and shook the air apart.
Within the hall, safe from the onslaught, the small figure paused to sniff
the incense-laden air. His eyes, unaccustomed to the smoke from the
torches, stung sharply and a tear fell from his cheek to splash on the
polished floor. The sound of thunder echoed dimly in the cavernous hall,
fading quickly into the oppressive stillness. The torches flickered
momentarily, casting macabre shadows upon the many shrouded statues that
stood in darkened alcoves along the black walls. Wide, fluted columns of
red-stained marble climbed effortlessly into the high and dark obscurity
of an ornately carved and ingeniously vaulted ceiling.
The figure stepped into a pale pool of torchlight and fidgeted nervously
with the thongs of a small leather bag that protruded from his tattered
hemp tunic. His toothless mouth opened and closed, saliva dribbling over
his cracked lips. He coughed sharply and spittle flew onto the black
floor. Eyes darting from shadow to shadow, he knelt to clean the defiled
tiles. His face was thin and covered in yellow skin that plainly bore the
passing of many years. The large head, but for a few wisps of long
rust-coloured hair behind the ears, was bald; the scalp speckled with dark
brown patches that resembled, in the half-light, old dried blood. On his
forehead he bore his most prominent feature; deeply scorched into his skin
was the Mark of Donag, the Rune of Death, sometime known as the Rooksfoot,
symbol of his mighty master the Mhôrlord of Ghoth.
He had screamed as the branding iron had burned and bitten into his flesh
long ago in his youth, but the searing pain had soon passed and the skin
soon healed. Then they had come to him in his loneliness and had taken
away his name, now useless in the service of his new master. They had made
him fight in the armies on the Hammath Frontier until a chance arrow had
pierced his left eye. They could have killed him then, so he had crawled
away and hidden behind a rock by a pool in the high mountains of
Hammath-Ar until they found him and brought him back to work his master’s
dungeons instead. He had not complained, for he had expected death and
came to enjoy the tasks they had set him in the death pits of the South
Keep. Yet he had tired eventually of the sights and smells of the
suffering. The screams of the tortured and the dying no longer brought
pleasure to his ears, and he then began to long for a chance to turn his
back on the dampness and dark of the dungeons. Then he had become a
tracker for the army, hunting enemy scouts in the Borderlands. He became a
killer in the dark, and stabbed and throttled his way into the confidence
of his superiors until they began to send him still further into the lands
of the enemy, even into the mists of Gederath, far to the north. He
gathered information for his masters and spread rumour of despair in
return. He killed whom they commanded and lived by his wits and woodcraft,
unhampered by the loss of his eye. For this was the realm of the night,
and he the master of the knife in the dark. It was hazardous work, but
deep inside he had known that eventually his chance would come. Then, one
dark and misty evening many years later, as he scratched and scavenged
amongst the wreck and ruin on a distant battlefield, he had stumbled upon
his long-awaited reward.
He smiled and fingered the worn and stained leather pouch close to his
chest. ‘None of that anymore,’ he thought, ‘Lesh is going to be famous
even. Famous and rich.’ He smiled to himself. ‘He may not know my name,
but I still remember, yes. And soon, very soon, He will praise it.’ He
laughed loudly. Standing up quickly he pushed the precious pouch further
into his filthy tunic, walked over to a blackened brazier and removed the
torch. Holding it aloft in his right hand he began to walk past the
statues, his unshod feet padding gently on the floor. The chamber echoed
again with the sound of thunder and the rising wail of the wind.
Outside in the storm, the Citadel was awakening. Groups of cowering and
grumbling soldiers cursed their weary way to the watch, wrapped in old
oilskins that afforded little protection from the onslaught of wind and
rain. The tall, grim towers, perched on their mountain spurs, gradually
took form in the growing light; edged with blood from the red sunrise,
they pierced the low cloud with hideous thorns.
The chamber seemed to be alive with whisperings. The torch guttered in
Lesh’s hand. He looked up and gazed in wonder at the three colossal stony
images that now towered above him. Over a hundred feet tall and wreathed
in timeless dread, they stood sentinel guard over the inner sanctuaries of
the Mhôrlord. Cowering, Lesh looked upon the fearful likenesses of the
Mighty Godkings of Ghoth. To the left, sitting upon a monumental granite
throne, palms cradling an Orb of Power; Uloth the Besieger, whose powerful
arms once smashed the mountainside and whose cry could shatter solid walls
of stone. About his great feet lay the chained corpses of men and beasts
and around his neck on a chain of adamant he bore the Rune Agog, the Rune
of Pestilence.
Upon the right, crouched low and ready to pounce, one mighty hand upon the
ground, the other grasping the magical sword Agnor; Uthrom the Terrible,
whose pace no horse could outrun and whose grip no man could break. The
souls of the undead were wreathed about his high helm and upon his shield
was emblazoned Kobol, the Rune of Famine.
Yet even more terrible and awesome was the colossus in the centre. Taller,
and more fell than his brothers, seated upon a leaping she-wolf; Agaroth
the Souleater. Of old the most feared of the three sons of Sheol, his
mighty mouth gaped open in a silent yet baleful scream of death. Where his
feet had passed no living thing ever grew or took root, and where his red
eyes came to rest there sprouted tongues of flame. Also named the
Destroyer by his enemies, he had once led the great armies of Ghoth into
battle against the hated Wizards of Ellyll many ages ago. On his palms
were branded the Runes Rab and Raym; Hate and Despair. Upon his forehead
the mighty Rune Sed, the Rune of War, shone forth still.
Lesh looked upon the Godkings in wide-eyed terror. He knew little of them
save their names and common legend, and never before had he gazed upon
their likenesses, nor dreamt that they could be so terrible, even in
death. It seemed to him that a magic was about them, for in the flickering
torchlight they appeared to move, to sway and grow and menace, and they
pinned him with their eyes and whispered words of death and despair in the
shadows.
He bowed before them and cautiously approached the gaping archway beneath
the outstretched paws of Agaroth’s mount and through into the corridor
beyond, thankful to leave the gaze of the statues. For a long moment he
stood still and sweating, hardly daring to breathe. In his mind he
half-imagined the broad hands of Uthrom fingering the floor, searching for
him. He shivered. Wiping his forehead, he tentatively raised the torch and
stared into the darkness ahead.
Although the corridor was wide, the ceiling was low and threatening,
covered with dull frescoes and reliefs depicting bloody battles fought on
ancient and forgotten fields. The walls were hung with battered and
corroding suits of chain armour between once magnificent tapestries of
silk and spun silver. It seemed to him that all the folk of ages past were
somehow enslaved within the images lining the long corridor. An
overwhelming feeling of the futility of life, a growing sensation of
hopelessness and despair swept over him. Ahead in the distance, he could
just make out the dim outline of another archway and the faint sheen of
great iron-shod doors. He began to walk slowly toward them, pulling at his
tunic and wiping his face... and the lifeless eyes of the dead watched his
passing.
Suddenly the great doors opened. A shrill wind sprang up and whistled
violently along the corridor, tugging at the tapestries and extinguishing
the torch. Lesh fought hard to catch his breath. Above the now loud
beating of his heart he heard the unmistakable sound of voices in the
wind; high and shrieking voices crying in an unknown tongue that left Lesh
cowering against the wall. As he bowed his head and tried to master the
trembling that shook his limbs, he became aware of a growing light,
pulsating gently at the far end of the corridor. Unable to withdraw his
gaze he watched as one amazed as the light changed hue and shape,
brightened and intensified into an awesome visage of a hideous head,
floating above unseen shoulders. The vision was one of pure terror;
baleful eyes shone with a pale green light under heavy lids as from under
a thin circlet of dull steel, dark hair streamed like striking snakes. The
skin seemed to boil with parasites as the jaws worked feverishly, flesh
peeling from the cheeks to reveal twitching muscles and bleached white
bone.
Wide-eyed with horror he watched, covering his mouth to stifle his
whimpering as the disembodied head turned slowly and began to move toward
him. He threw himself to the ground. The head appeared to gain momentum
and with a piercing scream sped past him and out into the chamber. Lesh
remained scrambling on the floor by the wall as head after head formed in
the doorway and, like a grisly parade of the undead, passed over him.
These were the Sendings of his Lord and Master; grim messengers that bore
the evil will of Sheol to distant lands and kingdoms. On a dark and
desolate moor many leagues away a fell Captain of Ghoth would bow before
the terrible gaze; would make his report and receive his commands.
Conjured by spells unknown, concocted in the brew of blackness, they
served Sheol well. They were his eyes and his voice, and spread the words
of the Mhôrlord like a cancer across the lands.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind stopped. A brooding silence
spread along the corridor. Trembling, Lesh stood and made his wary way
down the hallway and through the archway into the vast, domed chamber. The
air was heavy with the residual charge of arcane enchantment and the hairs
bristled on his head and arms. It was bitingly cold in the chamber and his
breath misted before him. On each of the four black walls hung a flaming
torch, and in the centre lay a circular pool which reflected the red light
in dancing patterns upon the high ceiling. This was the inner sanctuary of
his Master; Sheol, the Mighty Mhôrlord of Ghoth, Dark Bane of the World
and enemy of all the Free Peoples. This was the centre of his evil realm
and no light of sun nor moon stained the darkness. No window was built in
wall or ceiling, for the wrathful eyes that dwell within need no physical
sight of the wide world about this high tower; all that walks or slithers
about the Plains of Hôr, and more besides, cannot escape his vigilance.
Against the eastern wall, atop three broad plain steps, stood a mighty
stone chair, bare and unadorned save for a canopy of deep black velvet
shot through with silver and scarlet Runes. Seated upon the chair was a
robed figure, head bowed and hidden within a drooping cowl. Slowly, Lesh
moved forward, bringing the leather pouch gingerly from out of his tunic.
Kneeling by the circular pool, he bowed before his Master. From his
nervous lips now came the words that he had long considered;
“My Lord, I bring you a prize from The Uther.” From the pouch he lifted a
clear crystal globe, no more that a handspan in circumference, bearing no
mark or stain, which reflected the pale torchlight. The cloaked figure
stirred and gestured for Lesh to approach the throne.
“How came you by this?” said Sheol. The voice was low and cracked, but
subtly menacing and laced with dormant power. Lesh raised the globe before
him in response.
“I took it from the ruins of the Tower of Herle by the shores of Lake
Obron, my Lord, which fell to siege twenty days since. It lay in the wreck
of a chapel and burned my hand at first touch.” He grimaced at the memory
of the sharp, lancing pain.
“It is truly a most magical thing, and such things are commanded to be
brought before my Lord without delay.”
Sheol leant forward in his throne and took the orb, cradling it within his
wide palms like a new-born child. His eyes glistened with satisfaction. So
this was the power that he had felt, that had troubled his dreams and
haunted his thoughts? He smiled inwardly. For was this not an Orb of
Power? A prize indeed! He studied it carefully and sought out it’s hidden
intricacies, feeling the inert will of it’s creator. Truly this was the
work of the hated Wizards. He could almost smell them and their putrescent
purity; it turned his stomach! But know it had come, as all things must,
to him. He laughed. And the gale of his mirth threatened to drown the
thunder.
Forged in the deeps of time in the smithies of Elvenhowe, the Orbs were
intended to be the vessels of Earthstrength, the natural force of all
living things. In them was stored the lore and wisdom of the Wizard to
whom it belonged, and into it he put much of his Self. The Orbs were
fundamentally instruments of learning and peace, but could be used as a
weapon at need, and also as a means of vision. Many ages ago he himself
had created and owned an Orb such as this, but he had corrupted it and it
had been taken from him. He knew well it’s uses and also it’s hidden
dangers. He must guard it, use it only at need and at the fullness of his
power; for they might sense him through the Orb, if they still live, feel
his eyes upon them and break the link. He must bide his time. He was weary
from his sendings.
Gently he laid the globe on his knees and placed a fold of his cloak about
it. Turning to Lesh, he pointed to a small wooden chest by the door.
“Bring it to me,” he commanded, “and we shall see to your reward.”
Lesh lifted the chest and, kneeling before the throne, offered it to his
Lord. Sheol lifted the lid and took from within a small silver ring, set
with a single stone of turquoise in the form of the Rune Geb. He placed
the cold ring upon Lesh’s trembling finger.
“You have done well, my servant. This is a fitting reward for an act such
as yours. It is a ring of Geb, and it is the mark of a Bearer in my
personal service.” Sheol hardened his voice.
“Wear it and report to the Captain of my Iron Legion. He will explain your
new duties. Make sure you learn them well. Now leave me.”
Lesh rose, bowed and left the chamber. As he closed the great doors behind
him, a broad smile broke slowly across his face. Lesh had finally got his
reward. His step was light, despite the storm, as he made his way to the
barracks. As he waited for the corroded portcullis to wearily rise, he
looked hard at the beautiful ring of Geb, little realising that the
trinket on his finger was the command to the Captain of the Legion to
commit the bearer for death by mutilation in the torture pits of the South
Keep.
On the topmost tier of the highest tower of the Citadel known as Solon’s
Keep, fierce white lightning struck the leaded dome and fluoresced. Drawn
by many conduits deep down into the mountain’s heart, the assault of the
elements on the realm of the Mhôrlord was as harmful as a summer breeze.
From the Tower, a great laughter was heard.
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'Every day the wise grow weaker until, at last they shall prevail'
Saniwat's Book of Lore. Chapter XXYI, paragraph XVII.
The old man shuffled aimlessly about his cottage. Amidst the clutter of
books and leaves of dull parchment, he had worn a path of worry and
concern. He was barefoot, and the soft thump of his feet on the thick
carpet was in time to the drumming of gnarled fingers on his forehead. It
was a small cottage on the outskirts of a small village, but he liked it.
He had lived here for nearly twenty seasons and made a meagre living as
the local herbmaster, and he was content. He couldn’t quite remember
exactly how old he was, but he knew it was older than the seventy-season
facade of his face; it wasn't that important. Many years ago, in his
distant youth, he had been a traveller of sorts; a collector. He had
dabbled once or twice in the mystical arts; some had even said that he had
possessed some skill, but not enough. So he had settled on collecting, and
learning. He enjoyed both. Then they had given him a task. An easy task,
or so they had told him; well within his capabilities, one that involved
no real exertion, that would allow him to continue his studies unabated.
He had agreed. They bought him a three-room cottage on a hill by a small
village, and that was that: Never a word from them since: Which was fine
by him, although he wouldn't have minded some small monetary recompense!
But he didn’t complain. He spent much of his time reading (he had
collected some fine, and in some cases, rare, tomes over the years) and
writing (his essays concerning Acidity and Crystal Impurities had been met
with much acclaim in the proper circles). He padded around the large room,
full to overflowing with his collection. There was a smell of learning in
this place, an old smell with a tinge of damp and dust; very comforting.
But something was not quite right today, and he couldn't put his finger on
it. Absently, he flicked at a loose leaf of cracked vellum; a translation
he had been working on. The original manuscript was written in Elphin; a
coarse and primitive language more akin to lusty tales of bawdy heroes
than to more cerebral scribblings. To find an intelligent work written in
the Faerie Tongue piqued his curiosity, hence the decision to translate it
into Yngham, the acknowledged medium for `higher' pieces. He picked up the
title page and read the words written in embellished red ink, 'SANIWAT:
HIS LORE'. He snorted. `The man wouldn't recognise a nugget of wisdom if
it weighed a ton!', he thought. He shook his head, sighed and shuffled
carefully over to the wide, round study window and gazed out beyond the
confines of his untended garden, down the rise and into the wide fields.
The bright sunlight caught the dirt on the glass and distorted the view.
He frowned and squinted, trying in vain to peer through the greasy
streaks, bird droppings and spider's webs. Then he cried in frustration
and turned back into the room, frowning deeply; the feeble attempt at
distraction a failure. What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so
peculiar? He dreamt something, what was it? No, not a dream, more of an
awareness; a feeling. He had awoken uneasy, why? He was missing something;
something simple. Something that would explain this growing sensation of
foreboding. 'Damn it!' he thought. The thump of his unshod feet began
anew.
Outside, in the late heat of an autumnal afternoon, the villagers of
Farminster toiled to bring in the harvest, and the air was full of the
smell of wheat. Overhead, in the clear blue sky, birds circled above the
chaffing sheds as the women tossed the husks to separate grain from
kernel. A young girl dressed in red waved and whipped a long scarf to keep
the birds away from the neat piles of grain. At her feet a small hada
squeaked playfully and nipped at her skirts. She laughed and bent to pick
up the rodent. Cupping the ball of brown fur in her hands she brought it
to her face and admonished it. "You stop that Toad, or I might step on
you, and then what?" The creature looked up at her with large black eyes
and said, "and then what?", in perfect mimicry of his mistresses voice.
Pouting, and feigning sadness she said, "A box in the ground, that's
what!". She placed the hada gently in her skirt pocket and sighed wearily.
Then a cry came from the sheds, "Elwyn: Mind those damned birds." It was
her stepmother, the widow Alneth; a harridan with a shrieking voice and
vicious temper. Elwyn looked up to see an ancient raven pecking at the
kernels, it's wings almost tatters and it's feathers ruffled and unkempt.
She whipped her scarf at the bird and shouted, "Begone shatha, or the
devil take us both!" The scarf cracked the air less than a foot distant
from the bird, and yet the raven remained, apparently undisturbed. Elwyn
stood in surprise. The raven cocked it's head at her and cawed; an old,
creaking wheeze, like a man dying. Fixing her with one black and
glistening eye, it paused, then pecked once more at the grain, spread it's
unsteady wings and took flight. Flying low it passed by the pot kilns and
headed for the woods to the south of the village. When it had flown out of
sight, Elwyn blinked and snapped shut her gaping mouth.
From the sheds came the unmistakable shriek of Alneth, "What in the name
of all that's mighty! Did you see that? Now she's positively inviting 'em!
Elwyn, you useless slut! You want that we should all go hungry this
winter? Shatha.' Take your useless self home and prepare the oven, if you
think you can manage that! And fetch the water from the well while you're
about it! Sanda, take the bloody scarf and keep the birds off that grain
and pray that you make a better job of it. I ask you! What curse is it to
have that one for a daughter unasked for? And her lazy slob of a brother
too! Bloody useless ingrates the pair of 'em. Elwyn, do you hear me girl?"
Elwyn untied the scarf from her wrist and handed it to Sanda with a weak
smile. The fat girl snatched it from her. "Shatha", she sneered. Elwyn
raised an eyebrow and turned away to hide her watery eyes. She could hear
the women laughing at her, but she fought the urge to run. Instead, with
measured steps she made her way to the smithy. The snap of the scarf and
the cry of birds soon faded, but the cutting words of Alneth, as always,
remained.
Elwyn was an attractive young girl of seventeen seasons, with long shiny
brown hair that curled about her shoulders and smiling brown eyes. She had
an easy manner, despite the treatment she received from Alneth and the
other women. Along with Rheyan, her brother, she lived with Alneth and
Horgild the Smith in the centre of Farminster, in rooms above the forge by
the village green. Despite having remarried three seasons past, Alneth was
still known as 'The Widow', due to her having outlasted five previous
husbands, including Willam, Elwyn's father. Willam had died during a
distant hunting foray out in The Fringes when Elwyn was but six. Of her
mother, Caroel, she knew scant little, save that she was beautiful and
hailed from Dun Sutton, a large village some thirty leagues to the west.
Rheyan claimed to remember her, but Elwyn doubted that. Caroel had
abandoned them, or so the story went, when Elwyn was only four months old,
and Rheyan was only a year older than she. Besides, Rheyan was known to
bend the truth at times. Since the death of their father they had lived
with Alneth, whose only gift to them was the roof over their heads. All
else they had to work hard for; and Alneth was an accomplished and
demanding taskmaster. Little more than servants in their own home, Alneth
swayed from vociferously wishing them gone to privately keeping them
chained to the smithy; she knew that without the children she would lose
what comfort and power she possessed. To the children, the desire had
always been present to leave and search out their mother. They would speak
of this secretly, in whispers. Yet always knowing that it was only a
fancy. They had few friends; the closest of these being old Gammer Sudge
out by the woods. He would welcome them and tell them tales from the past
in return for a rabbit or a cluster of herbs. In what time they could
spare from their daily chores, they would hunt or gather for him; clean
his house or chop logs. And in payment, the old man would open one of his
dusty books or cracked scrolls and let them look in wonder at the words
and images of people, places and creatures of legend that would spring to
life in the tale telling by his crackling wood fire. Sudge was tolerated
by the villagers for his herblore and medicines, but most thought him a
cranky old lunatic. Some even called him a wizard or warlock, but all knew
this to be just unfounded gossip. He was an old and lonely man. That's
all.
Elwyn thought of the Old Sudge as she made her way past the Roundawse, the
circular wood tavern that stood by the village green. She and Rheyan had
been unable to visit the old man for the past tendays due to the harvest.
She missed him and his crooked smile.
Sat about tables outside the Roundawse, shaded from the sun by a white
canvas overhang, a group of men were talking and laughing loudly, lifting
great mugs of ale to their mouths to quench their thirsts before returning
to the fields. A maid emerged bringing more ale to the tables, dodging the
straying hands and lewd requests with equal skill. The miller's son called
loudly for a mug of cider and offered himself as payment. The maid said
something in his ear and slapped his face in response, causing renewed
laughter in the others. Catching sight of Elwyn, she waved and glanced up
to the heavens before disappearing inside to answer the calls for ale from
within.
Elwyn grinned to herself and walked toward the smithy, where a thin grey
smoke rose from the squat stone chimney. The wide doors were both thrown
open and she could see Rheyan working at the anvil, muscles glistening, as
he hammered at a new scythe blade. He had abandoned all but his leggings,
and these he had cut off at the knee. Holding the sparking metal in a long
pair of blackened tongs, he thrust the blade into a waiting trough of
water. A great cloud of steam rose from the trough as the sound of
screaming water made Elwyn wince. She entered and looked about the smithy.
A curse came from within the cloud.
Where's Horgild?", she asked.
Out drinking as always when there's work to be done", came the response.
Rheyan emerged from the quickly dissipating cloud covered in sweat and
water droplets. He removed the blade and lay the tongs on the table with a
clatter. He turned the metal over in his hands with a disdainful glance.
Look at this", he proffered the scythe blade. Elwyn looked puzzled. Taking
the metal in both hands he made to bend it. Instead, the metal complained
once and broke in the centre with a dull snap. Rheyan threw the two halves
to the floor in disgust. As if to prove his point, one of the fragments
fractured again as it hit the floor. Rheyan grunted a laugh and reached
for a cloth to wipe his face.
What am I supposed to do with rubbish like this? This is what comes of
working with poor quality ore. I'd be better going off into the mountains
and mining my own. And why is it that when there's work to be done, off
goes Horgild every afternoon for a jug and a jawcrack at the Roundawse.
And it's me that gets the blame when his customer's complain. I can't work
with this stuff. If I ever finish something and the buyer fails to notice
what a load of rubbish it really is, you can still bet a thumb for a lion
it'll be back within the week". Rheyan sat heavily on a wooden stool,
leant forward on the table and began to steeple his fingers, trying to
regain his composure. Elwyn took the cloth from his hands and began to
wipe the moisture from his back.
You know as well as I that it's not Horgild's fault", she said.
"Alneth's the one that insists on buying cheap ore. She thinks that the
other is too expensive. And he drinks and lays the blame on you to cover
his own reputation in the village. So think about it for a moment Rhe;
what she saves, he spends. So why worry? Besides, at least with him gone
you get a chance to make your own things occasionally, and don't think
that I don't know about your secret horde. Don't look so coy! Would you
have me believe that beautiful sword you're so fond of was made from the
rubbish that Alneth buys? Don't worry, your secret is safe with me". She
tweaked his ear, which made him jump. In a more serious tone, she
continued;
It pains me to see you complain so, Rheyan. You must accept things for
what they are. This is it! This is our life, and it could be worse. No
amount of complaining will ever..."
I know all that", he interrupted. "Don’t you think I know? But nowhere
does it say that I have to be bloody happy about it! I don't intend to be
a serving-boy to that old crone for ever. I hate this place. And don't say
that you don't feel any different, because you can't hide that, at least
not from me. I can't stay here Elwyn, I really can't. I feel tied up;
trapped. I've got to go. I mean it this time. Come with me. I could never
leave without you; never leave you here, alone." Elwyn laid down the cloth
and began to massage the stiff muscles of his shoulders. Slowly, he began
to relax as her fingers removed the knots of tension in his neck.
And where will we go Rheyan? Where? I know that you're unhappy, and I too,
but we can't leave with nowhere to go to and no money. It just isn't
possible. At least not yet. Things will change, you'l1 see." Rheyan sighed
and slumped over the table. Elwyn slapped her brother lightly on the
shoulder saying;
Cheer up Rhe, things can only get better." Rheyan grunted in disbelief.
Elwyn stepped back, took a crude wooden pitcher from the wall and filled
it quietly with water from the trough. Holding her breath she moved back
to him and lifted the bucket over his bare back. Still sprawled over the
table, he pointed over his shoulder at a point on his neck he clearly
wished massaging. With a squeal of delight she poured the contents over
him and began to run for the door. As the water hit, he let out a loud cry
of surprise and arched his back. The cold water ran down, drenching his
leggings and splashing off the stone-slabbed floor. He stood suddenly,
knocking over the stool and turned, flailing wildly to catch his sister.
"You bloody devil", he cried as he shook the water from his hair. Elwyn
was caught in the spray and the cold water caught her breath. He reached
for her trailing arm and pulled her toward him. There was a squeak from
her skirt pocket as the little hada leapt out and headed under the table
for safety. Rheyan laughed. Elwyn, knowing what he had in mind began to
plead.
"Rhe, no. Please don't!" She squirmed and giggled as he lifted her in his
strong arms and deposited her with a tremendous splash in the trough. She
spluttered and coughed, throwing great gouts of water at him until they
were both utterly drenched. Twice he managed to immerse her, and once did
she nearly manage to drag him in too! Then, their madness sated, they both
collapsed into fits of hysterical laughter; she, waist deep in cold water
and he laid flat on his back in the puddles on the floor.
Do you know what?" he asked, between giggles, "I think we should go and
see The Sudge to dry off before the old bag gets back or we'll be for the
chop and no mistake." He laughed again. Elwyn, suddenly serious, climbed
from the trough and began to wring out her skirt.
"If you don't finish off another scythe blade before supper, and I don't
get the oven warmed up, then we'll both be for the chop for sure. What was
I thinking? Rheyan, this isn't the place or the time to be thinking of
slinking off to see The Sudge..." He began to complain, but she cut him
short.
"After supper, we'll borrow some of them spice pies from the larder and
pay the Old Man a call. Until then, let me stand by the forge for a while
to dry off some while you get started on another blade. Look sharp!" She
stood over his grumbling body and wrung water from her skirt onto him. He
sat up sharply and made to playfully bite her leg. But she was too fast
for him, and side-stepped easily. She picked up the tongs from the table
and held them out to him. He pushed himself wearily up from the floor,
paddled over to her and took them. The hada, convinced it was safe,
emerged from under the table and squeaked for recognition. Elwyn laughed
lightly and picked the tiny creature up and began to stroke it's smooth
fur. The hada began to click it’s tongue quietly, a sign of contentment.
Looking out onto the village green, scorched to a light brown hue with the
strong sunlight of the past summer, he paused for a moment to listen to
the sounds of the village in the late afternoon; the dull and distant
clanking of the mill, the occasional clip-clop of one of the large
farmhorses accompanied by the barking of a dog and the constant
twitterings of grasshoppers. He allowed himself one last sigh as a fresh
bout of raucous laughter wound across the green from the Roundawse. He
took a long, deep breath and said;
"Elwyn, my dear sister, I don't care what you say. I don't know how but I
promise you that we'll both be gone from this place before autumn's end."
He turned, only to notice that she had left by the rear door, leaving
nothing but a trail of small, wet footprints on the grey stone.
Supper was a miserable affair. Alneth had returned early from the
chaffing-sheds and had arrived at the forge just as Horgild had staggered
out of the Roundawse. Alneth was in the company of Girgil and Inhilda, two
notorious village gossips, and wishing not to lose face, had chastised her
husband publicly. Horgild had been suitably humble in the company of the
other women, but had stood his ground in private. This was a rare
occurrence and thus the argument had been a fierce one. Eventually, as
Elwyn prepared supper, the harsh words subsided somewhat, although for the
duration of the meal, both Elwyn and Rheyan became the focus of undue
criticism. Supper over
and both Alneth and Horgild had retired to separate rooms, leaving the two
children to clear the dishes. This they had done with great haste and,
their chores finished, they had taken a cut of pork and a selection of
spice pies from the well-stocked larder and made their way outside.
It was late evening, and the sky was awash with twinkling stars. A thin
quarter-moon shone with a pale blue light and the air was still and
scented with grain. They dropped the latch of the narrow back door
quietly, and did not speak until they had climbed the low wooden fence
that marked the boundary of Horgild's land. They strode through the
stubbled fields talking in low voices about the evening's argument until
they came to the gate at the bottom of the Old Man's Hill. They looked up
at the small, squat cottage, and noticed with relief that a faint orange
light shone through the tears in the heavy study curtains. They walked up
the hill and knocked gently on the window, four times; their secret knock.
Soon, the wide oaken door opened with a complaining creak.
"Well come on in if that's your wish," said the silhouette in the doorway,
"and don't be all night about it!" The door led into a tiny hallway lit by
a single candle. A brown canvas robe hung from a peg by a large, stained
mirror. Every other available space was consumed with barrels, chests,
crates and boxes of all types, draped with protective covers that were
themselves covered with all manner of objects and scrolls. Sudge closed
the door behind them and, scenting the pies began to smile.
"Mithanos and Cinnamon, unless I'm very much mistaken," he proclaimed, his
eye catching the small wicker basket in Elwyn's hand. Elwyn and Rheyan
grinned and nodded. "Well, welcome indeed to you both: In you go!" He
ushered them through a low door and into his study. "I haven't seen you
two in quite a while. I thought that you'd abandoned me." Elwyn noticed
the good-humoured glint in his eye and sad,
"The harvest Gammer, is demanding work, and you know we come as much as we
may." They all sat by the stone hearth, as Elwyn unpacked the pork and
handed it to the old man. "This is the last of the summer's arrawn, here,
take it and cheer yourself up. As you've guessed it's mithanos and
cinnamon pies after. In fact, it's we that come in search of cheering."
Sudge took the cured meat with thanks and looked hard at his two guests.
"Then I'll make a bargain with you both. In return for the pork, I'll tell
a tale, and in return for me eating a pie or two, you may help me solve a
small problem." They laughed quietly.
"You drive a hard price for a story Gammer," said Rheyan, "so eat! The
sooner to start your tale."
The old man took a fork and began to eat as Rheyan and Elwyn chattered
about their day. As Sudge finished, the boy went outdoors and returned
carrying a few logs for the fire. He placed them in the hearth, poked at
the fire half-heartedly, and sat next to Elwyn. Sudge wiped his mouth and
cleared his throat theatrically. He squinted at them both and sat back in
the ancient arm-chair.
"Now then. What shall it be tonight?" he began. The youngsters looked at
each other.
"Another epic", said Rheyan, "one of those romantic stories about King
Trylemas". He turned to Elwyn expectantly. She was scowling.
"Not another tale of chivalry and demure ladies and secret trysts and love
and gooey kisses:" she said. "Honestly Rheyan, sometimes I worry about .
you". Rheyan turned to Sudge with a pained expression. The old man smiled
and disguised a chuckle with a cough. Elwyn fixed Sudge with her large
brown eyes, and continued;
"I'd like to hear a new tale... something we haven't heard before. I don't
mind what about as long as there's some danger and excitement..."
"Some guts and gore you mean", said Rheyan. "Who would think looking at
you that you were a bloodthirsty little vixen". He laughed as she in turn
looked at Sudge in mock pain. The old man nodded and shifted slightly in
his chair, smiling. He stroked his beard thoughtfully for a second and
said,
"Right," he said, "Have I ever told you the story of Themocrastis and the
Root of Life?" They both shook their heads and sat back as the old man
steepled his fingers and closed his eyes. He took a long, deep breath and
began.
It was late at night, and the village slept. Al1 was quiet; the occasional
muted shriek of a hunting owl was all that pierced the silence. There was
no wind to disturb the trees and the thin moon cast only an infrequent
glance over the forest through the thin clouds. Deep within the trees
however, a dark shape moved through the shadows, blacker than the night.
It made no sound as it moved, and left no visible trail in it's wake. It
was moving through the forest like a black mist, flowing between the
trees. As it reached the forest's edge, it paused and seemed to shrink
into the thick undergrowth. Down from the edge, the rough pasture ground
stretched toward the village, broken only by low stone walls and one or
two irrigation ditches. In a nearby hut, the scuffling sound of nervous
chickens broke the silence and a dog barked. The shadow moved quickly,
skirting the edge and away from the anxious barking, It stopped
momentarily at the river bank, as if considering the swirling water, then
slowly flowed over the shallows by the weir and up the far bank, toward
the low hill in the distance, where a solitary orange light shone from a
ground window. In the morning, the weirsman would discover three dead
fish, bloated and swollen, floating in the river close to the bank, and
would scratch his head in confusion. The shape paused by a wooden gate at
the foot of the low hill and seemed to rise up, as if stretching to catch
a scent. In one fluid motion, it passed over the gate and, low to the
ground, crawled up the hill until it lay crouched by the stone wall of the
cottage, virtually indistinguishable from the lighter shadows about it. In
the distance the sounds of the dog faded and stopped. By the cottage wall,
the shape swayed slightly, and deep from within the folds of a tattered
cloak came a frail, grey hand, shaking and nervous; the skin drawn tightly
over the thin bones, fingernails long, stained and sharp. Then another
hand appeared and stroked the long fingers of the other. Both then formed
a cup, one below and one above, as if holding a precious globe that was
slowly and purposely raised up. Suddenly, the thin fingers parted, and an
object fell silently onto the soft soil. The hands passed over it once in
a short, jerky movement and then disappeared beneath the cloak. The dark
shape again became indistinct, and without a sound, it flowed back down
the hill, over the gate and into the eaves of the forest.
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