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“I once heard it said that a storyteller has but the briefest moment to snare the mind of his listeners and make them follow his story to the end. I once heard it said that one must start off the story with a grand mystery or a bloody war—something exciting.” Renz’s voice was satin-soft. He and Vira sat under the moonlight on a mossy boulder in a deserted corner of the fort that had seen too many bar fights and not enough tenderness.
“Will you tell me of your swordsmanship, then?” Vira asked in a hush. Renz felt her shift closer to him in the way a faithful hound reaches out for her owner’s fingers.
“No, not swordsmanship,” Renz said, adjusting his battle-ax to avoid poking her in the ribs. “You must forgive me, my sweet, but I have no such tales. The truth is, the really talented storyteller—the one who always smells of campfires and whose voice has wrought fantasies in the minds of children and noblemen alike—will describe the background before ever beginning the story of an epic battle or doomed love. Such men, the truly talented, know how to create the proper setting. They start at the beginning. A noble prince dying in the woods, handing off his infant son to—”
“Was your father a prince?” Vira asked, her voice subdued with the anticipation of a girl half expecting to hear half-lies.
“Had he only been one, I would be a match for you.” She shifted even closer, and he heard a soft sigh surging from a place deep within her where fantasies still lived. On the wall above, the sentries exchanged smoldering torches together with their shifts.
As Renz inhaled the scent of his nearing prize, he remembered his “noble” lineage. His father, like his father, his father, and his father before him, went straight from their mother’s tit to an ale jug, though it much humbler in dimensions. Whenever he surfaced from that bottleneck, he had only strength enough to bed his wife and ride a patrol. One or the other was bound to be his downfall. But the man’s heart was strong, so Renz’s father survived the bouts with Renz’s mother. His neck, however, snapped like a twig when he drunkenly fell off his horse during a patrol in the Ashes. No one was sure whether it was the fall that killed him or the leagues that his trusty steed dragged him through while evading the hot pursuit of other Silver Bear warriors who tried to save their comrade.
“Well, you are no noble; you have no scars of epic battles and no Silver Claw on your shoulder. What will you capture my attention with, except those pretty eyes?” she asked in the coquettish way of a girl whose attention was captured and fettered with chains strong enough for a giant.
Renz had long ago realized that his quick smile, the silver-colored hair, and the varnished silver glint of his eyes were the perfect combination to seduce common girls. More than that, what really won him favor with women was his approach—life owed him much, and he was collecting.
If only the prize were greater. “If I were walking the halls of the Borian lords or even inspecting the plump granaries of the Kitaran wheat barons...surely I would have entangled the heart of a proper maiden, one of nobler blood and sultrier appearance!” Renz thought as his palm softly lowered to Vira’s thigh. It was soft and smooth. How depressing it was, he thought as his fingers gently squeezed that thigh, that, alas, his talents were being wasted here at the edge of the world. Not that he was certain this was the edge of the world. Vague legends, half-baked rumors, and holy priests (all equally untrustworthy, in Renz’s opinion), spoke of vast lands beyond the border. They said that the Ashes stretched into sunset and then beyond. Unfortunately, Asenthia lacked not only maidens worthy of Renz’s arrogant attention but also competent cartographers who could render accurate maps. Besides, no one had the courage to truly brave the Ashes, so Renz was stuck here at the border, at the edge of the world, with Vira. Vira! He remembered and turned back to her, realizing that his mind could also use a good mapping to avoid meandering down the various side paths.
“It is so because I have nothing—no lineage, no shiny coin, no rank, no great victories. Not even any future but to serve quietly in this fort for the rest of my life. Anyone else to whom you might gift your love will not cherish or remember it the way I will…” His voice faded to nary a whisper so that she had to lean closer and closer toward his lips.
“You’re mad!” she excitedly whispered. “I am to wed your general with the sunrise! My father will see you hanged if he finds out!”
“I will chance all of that for one night, just one night—” Their lips met and interrupted the moonlight.
They were out of step with each other; their lovemaking was akin to a battle. It lacked the fluidity of an old couple dancing the same dance at the annual village fall festival.
She brushed her lips against his. He tried to bite them. She caressed his cheek with her fingers. He twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled. She tried to shush him to a slower pace. He snorted like a bull plowing a field. She kissed his neck. He choked hers.
The cot groaned under them, its wooden frame threatening to break. Their ardor shook the nearby table, wobbling the half-full goblet of wine—the red liquid swooshing in pace with their thrusts until it overturned. A crimson river was birthed, with most of the tributaries seeping into the wood and only the heartiest taking a path of exploration: winding under the crook of a still-smoking pipe, around hills of melted wax, and by a mountain of cleanly-picked chicken bones. Eventually the stream became a waterfall, and Renz heard those drops of wine drumming off his ax belt as they fell from the table.
The wine stopped dripping. Renz tensed and jerked out. His seed rushed forth onto her thighs, slowly oozing down to her knee and onto his tabard—mandatorily hand-washed for her upcoming wedding. Dragon seed! Renz thought. He rolled off her naked, sweated-sparkling body. She rolled onto him, eager to share pleasure’s aftertaste. He rolled her off, using his pipe as an excuse. They were doing their awkward dance again.
The surge of pleasure slowly ebbed. With it left the insatiable, insane lust he had felt just moments before. In its stead came the realization that he had just plowed the future wife of the Master of the Order. Dragon seed! He swallowed loudly, imagining what a noose would feel like crushing his throat. They would not even chop his head off. That mercy they saved for traitors, murderers, and rapists. No, his death would be far slower and more painful.
He deeply inhaled the smoke of his pipe along with the smell of his room. Surely underneath discarded tunics, cloaks, and breeches was a dead rat. There was also the stale, sour reek of spilled wine and regretful sex, the latter being more distinct and accusing.
A gaze around his room—anything not to look at her. Two dull daggers, thrown out of boredom, stuck out of a wall a good foot away from the crudely drawn target. In the corner was a bucket filled with water the color of sword rust. A chamber pot covered by some dirty rags completed his furnishings.
The panting, glistening Vira was oblivious to these unromantic details and was kissing his shoulder as she murmured some soft words of affection into his skin in a futile attempt to add significance to an act that had none. He shrugged her off.
“You should hurry, Vira; it’s dawning,” Renz said. “You’ll be late for your wedding.”
Renz skirted the perimeter of the crowd like a vagabond looking for a drink. The morning was bright, illuminating everything—both virtue and sin. Renz had too few of the former and too many of the latter to push through to the wedding arc. He kept away from the places where the bride and groom could see him in his seed-covered tabard.
The aroma of freshly baked bread circled the fort’s courtyard, summoning saliva from mouths too familiar with stale crackers. Soldiers, moving about their errands, so accustomed to the typical layout of their fort, stumbled on newly erected spits, canopies, and tables. And those spits held wonders: pierced from tail to mouth, large hogs and muscled elk twirled over fire. Farther away, whole families of hares took boiling baths in cauldrons filled with onions, carrots, and parsley. The tang of cinnamon and thyme ruled th
e air, vanquishing even the stench of so many sweating bodies pressing together.
In his six years serving in the Order of the Silver Bears, Renz had never seen the fort so festive. Mundane chores had marched the love of life out of these seasoned soldiers. Guarding against the Ash Lands had a way of dousing good humor. That is not to say that these men did not have a joke or two; they had enough to fill half-a-night’s watch, in fact. But most of those jokes were bawdy, and the laughter they evoked mostly cynical.
That is understandable, however, because most mornings found the warriors grumpily stumping around and going about insipid tasks. Sharpen the ax, chop the wood, sharpen the ax, practice decapitating an enemy in the yard, sharpen the ax, chop the wood... But this day was truly different. Men walked around grinning, stopping every few moments to partake of the unfamiliar aromas. Some went so far as to put flowers on their scabbards and wreaths on their hair. The Silver Bears even tried to don new colors—black was replaced by gray, and brown by dun.
After cajoling a flask of ale from the kitchen stewards by alternating promises of friendship with those of hounding and pain—anything in place of coin—Renz set out to find a resting place. This was not an easy task. For one, he needed a map to find the places where young recruits emptied piss pots and chamber pots; the lazy ones did not make it to the walls as was protocol. Once again, Renz wished for a good cartographer.
Finally, a grassy spot of earth, comfortably cooled by the shade of the smithy and not reeking of night soil, provided a tempting resting place. Renz stretched out and glanced toward the bustling crowd by the temple. Above everyone’s heads was a crook of the wedding arc. Supposedly, when the priest gave his benedictions and allowed the betrothed to step through the arc, they were married.
Renz was slowly sipping the ale and watching the crowd when a column of horses obstructed his view. They seemed out of place now. Dust fled the stamping hooves and clung to Renz. The clanking of weapons and the neighing of horses obliterated the cheerful music of magdanas and flutes that accompanied the newlyweds to the arc.
Chain was thrown over patched jerkins. Barbed, bearded axes and spiked, heavy maces hung off leather cords. The hunting hounds barked to the point of rasping as they weaved their way between hooves. For these men, there was no wedding this day, no festival of any sort. Today was like yesterday, like all the yesterdays put together. The Ash Lands required managing, and the owners of these bearded, sour faces were the unlucky ones to ride the patrol this festive day.
The dust took a long time to settle. When it finally did, Renz lit up his pipe and deeply sucked in the thick fumes. He didn’t force the smoke out; he simply parted his mouth and let wisps flee as they might. A gray cloud lazily crossed by his eyes and momentarily clung to the tips of his hair. When the mist cleared, Drean stood above him. It took his friend but a single moment of staring at Renz to determine that his warnings had gone unheeded.
“Gander at him! Can there be doubt?” Drean exclaimed. “You went and took your bear to her cave, didn’t you?” Drean asked as he settled down next to Renz, back against the smithy, knees bent.
Renz just grunted in response and tilted his head back to let ale spill down his throat.
“General Erthan’s bethro—” Drean started but was interrupted when the crowd around the arc erupted with cheers, whistles, and clapping. “General Erthan’s wife! Did not expect it even from you, Renz. Even from you.” Drean reached over and took the flask.
“Should Erthan or Master Filoran hear of this—” Drean said after a long gulp, but then he waved a hand, as if Renz wouldn’t understand anyway. He took another long swill and then shook the empty flask with a frown.
Renz stood up. He was tired of it all. He’d thought he had found a quiet resting spot here by the smithy, but fate appeared determined to not let him rest.
“Friend, do you know what is more pathetic than a painter without a canvas or a tavern without ale?” Renz asked. “It is a soldier without a war. A flaccid cock at the village dance has more purpose than that.
“Look at us! Our greatest enemy is boredom, and we are losing one day at a time. Every day I bruise my balls in the saddle riding another useless patrol through the Ash Lands, coming back with nothing but dry vomit and a headache. Every night, I stare in a stupor from the wall, waiting—praying—for the Ash Lands to unleash—” Renz didn’t finish; it was his turn to wave a hand in frustration.
The feast had moved away from the temple. The long line of well-wishers shouted blessings and wound to Bear’s Claw tavern. On long benches, men drank mead and ale. Wooden tables were laden with dishes Renz had not seen for months. Everyone looked happy—even the groom, who was usually as emotional as a dead man.
Drean shrugged; they’d had this conversation many times before. Instead of replying, he slung his magdana from around his shoulder and began strumming his single, eternal tune. Ding-ding-dong.
Renz left his friend and walked toward the temple. His dirty boots crushed flower petals left behind from the procession. The brown, squat temple loomed closer and closer——as inevitable as death. Renz passed under the ceremonial arc, which suddenly seemed very lonely. An hour ago it was the center of attention, but now it was abandoned, sacrificed as the wind’s plaything.
In everyone’s haste to attend the feast, they’d left the temple’s bronze gates flung open. Inside was darkness interrupted only by a few flickering tallow candles. The whole place stank of old leather and ancient vellum.
Uncertainty stopped Renz at the temple’s gate. But having stepped through the wedding arc, Renz felt obligated to carry that uncertainty over the threshold. It was not that he’d never been to the temple. He had. Just never of his own accord. He came to this place once a week, as was mandated by the Order. He and the other men sat on thoroughly uncomfortable, low stone benches, purposely made thus so it would be harder to fall asleep. Here Renz and the others listened to long, boring sermons deliver by an equally dull Jindar-Ul. These weekly visits were torture sessions, and more than once Renz found himself listening to the end of the lecture in some position that revealed he couldn’t have been awake. Before today, he had never gone inside actually seeking something.
Renz did not like this feeling of emptiness that had recently been assailing him. Considered from all angles, it seemed that Renz had everything. A bed every night, two meals every day. Occasionally, even some maiden’s warmth. He had friends and ale and dice. He didn’t have war—probably a good thing. And yet, something was amiss. Perhaps it is here, hidden in these windowless walls.
The temple looked eerie now, with no sour faces of the fellow warriors who accompanied him weekly, with no arrogant priests in white robes. But the statues were still here. Renz looked at the biggest one, the bronze figure of Panthos towering over the granite altar. The god was poised in mid-lunge, attacking…whoever it was that the legends said he attacked. The divine face was twisted with rage.
Renz spun at the sound behind his back. The gates had slammed shut. The wind, Renz reassured himself, even though the gates were bronze and required two stout priests to close them. Renz squinted at the sudden gloom. It was as though he were still a child, still scared by darkness. When he wasn’t looking, things moved. He was certain of it. The corner of his eyes perceived shapes slinking in shadows and under benches, but they stopped moving whenever he focused on them.
The silence, the sculpture of the outraged god, and the three slowly dying candles all told him to go away. And that was precisely why he was determined to stay. Renz walked to a heavy table of oak that held one of the candles and sat down by a closed volume. The book was unnecessarily thick, with many extravagant carvings on its wooden cover. Renz opened it to a random page and peered inside. The furthest candle from him—the one on the pulpit—died. The temple sank deeper into darkness.
The text was surprisingly elaborate. The letters had decorative crowns and curls and flourishes with which a normal scribe does not bother and for
which a barely literate Renz had little appreciation. The language was a little outdated, which Renz supposed added genuineness to the message.
As the prince lay dying, he left his infant child under the care of
The armies of our God were led across the Zahir’Sad by For mighty was
said unto the warriors of Asenthia. “For is with you!”
“What would a man’s soul be worth if of darkness
“Forg death
the Gods left
This part of the narrative was probably unfinished; all Renz saw were fragments. Some words seemed erased by time and usage. Renz respectfully closed the volume and gently pushed it away. His fingers pulled closer a thinner book, and he squinted to read the faded title. It was some chronicles of somebody Renz could not make out. When he opened the book, whole lines were missing, even paragraphs at times. Whatever was left didn’t make any sense. This book he did not bother closing; he just shoved it away. The second candle went out.
Renz took the last candle and hurried to the monolithic bookcase that stretched floor to ceiling. The first book that he opened was empty. It felt to the floor. The next had pages just as naked and was flung at the statue of Panthos. Icy pincers of fear squeezed Renz’s stomach. With an open palm, Renz emptied a whole shelf to the floor. Some books opened their wings in flight; others fell on their faces. But all the pages that Renz could see were empty.
He rushed back to the table and opened the first book he’d perused, the one that had held fragments he could read. Nothing stared back at him. Just faded, yellow pages devoid of ink.
Sizzling, the last candle died.
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