Good News Everyone!

Today marks the end of Derek’s semester. So if you were bored with my dry quibbling and boring story, then look forward to exciting content from him in the coming days. And don’t accept any other excuses. I know I won’t. To mark this  monumental moment, I present more Kinslayer Chronicle.

End of the Trail by James Earle Fraser.

Chapter 9 – End of Days

The Chronicler’s quill fell quiet. He cracked sore fingers and shuffled the papers together. His eyes briefly scanned the passages and he turned to regard the innkeeper.

Koudi sat motionless on the bench, his gaze locked on a single sword hanging on the wall. Following his gaze, the Chronicler saw it was a simple blade with a slight curve to its design and its edge the most worn and rusted. The only thing remarkable about it was its seeming lack of black colouration. It was a standard issued sword of mediocre quality. The sort of thing a merchant would issue to a hired hand – sturdy enough to withstand some use but cheap enough that it was no great loss with its inevitable disappearance either through battle or abandonment.

He looked over the last of his recount, turning back to the innkeeper. But he didn’t seem waiting for a response. A silence had been unleashed. A silence long kept buried and locked away. There was nothing that could be said to drive it away. There was nothing that could be done to mend the hole it rent. The Chronicler sat in its uncomfortable presence. He turned from the innkeeper, finding himself unable to regard the man anymore. In his distraction, he didn’t catch the sudden burst from the man, or his hand catching at the mug and sending it tumbling across the room to clatter against the floor.

The explosive passage of the mug sliced through the heart of that silence and stirred the listeners from their fugue. The innkeeper was on his feet, kicking the bench noisily away as he stomped towards the stairs. The Chronicler cried out, but his response was simply to pound a post as he passed.

His boots crashed against each step as he retreated from view. The Chronicler turned to Lafnis still sitting at the bar. But gone were her dreary doldrums as she watched the passing of her master with passive eyes. When she turned to the Chronicler, she merely shook her head. She got to her feet, crossing over and gathering the mug and wiping up the spilled contents with her cloth.

“I suppose you have your account then?”

“I suppose I do.”

She went to the door, easing it closed. The sky was still bright with the sun but the first veins of its setting began to beat behind the clouds. As the heavy mechanism latched into place, she wiped her hands against her clothes and gave a weak smile.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving in the morning then?”

“I suppose I will be.”

She nodded her head.

“It’s for the best. Definitely for the best.”

She breathed a slow sigh, looking about the various weapons on the walls.

“Some histories you never really expect, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” the Chronicler sighed. He turned to his satchel and began to pack his supplies. “Perhaps it’s true what they say.”

“And what’s that?”

“The Kinslayer never really existed.”

Lafnis looked at him curiously.

“What do you mean?”

The Chronicler chuckled to himself. Her simpleness never seemed so obvious. But he didn’t feel frustrated, just weary. All that coin and all that time spent for nothing. He snapped his satchel closed.

“For one, the story didn’t even make sense. Second, there was no claim to kin that could be slain. There was nothing there that suggested he was the Scarlet Heather – just a man, no more and no less.”

“You think he lied?” Lafnis asked.

“I think he’d like to believe himself a hero,” the Chronicler said with a laugh. “Wouldn’t we all?”

“I’m not so certain.”

The Chronicler raised a brow. “Oh?”

Lafnis looked at the mug in her hands, turning it slowly in her fingers as she watched the lone drop of ale crawl slowly across its surface.

“I have seen my fair share of heroes and adventurers. I have heard their stories and tales.” She looked up, an emotion the Chronicler couldn’t quite place reflected in her eyes. “So many come through these doors. So many lips are loosed by a kindly ear and a little drink. So few of them have nought but pain and suffering to share. The road is an unforgiving life. Those that take up arms to serve unknown masters and seek unknown places seem more to be fleeing than searching. And there’s only so much world they can try to hide from.

“Perhaps that is the morale of his story. Even the greatest hero is, as you said, just a man – nothing more and nothing less.”

She crossed the hall, pausing at the door as a thought occurred to her.

“But I suppose if they didn’t suffer then we wouldn’t have our tales. I wouldn’t have my evening entertainment and you wouldn’t have your chronicles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Lafnis said with a shake of her auburn hair. “I’m just a silly woman. But it’s something to consider, merchant of pain.”

She disappeared into the kitchen.

You thought this would be ending soon, didn’t you. There’s nothing that will end the Kinslayer Chronicle!

Random desert photo. Not mine.

Chapter 8 – The City of Dreams Part 2

On those streets, there were many ways to survive. Shafra got what he wanted through a heavy fist or rotted plank. He extolled his prices from your hide if he could ever get his fingers on you. But there were other ways that were more insidious.

Her name was Saorla. She was one of the kin. Her red hair wasn’t as bright, covered as it was in muck and filth. Her green eyes were dull, lit only by that familiar hunger that kept us breathing amongst the streets. She moved along the rooftops and through the alleys with an unspoken sorrow. For while I knew nothing but the burning sun and begging hordes, she remembered. And those memories clung to her like a disease. It kept some children away, fearful that her words would stir something deep inside them. She kept those memories to herself, with almost a pitied look every time I asked.

But she had a smile. It was a small thing. Her lips turned just slightly in a manner equally haunting as it was comforting. There was a power within it. She knew this and turned that smile upon unsuspecting marks. She would approach with the tried pathetic moan of a child hungry and worn. Her fingers lifted, shaking just slightly to eyes that barely glimpsed her.

“Copper to spare, sir?”

They would turn away. Most wouldn’t even feign seeing her. Some would whisper an apology or command for her to move. It mattered not. She always gave the same reply.

“May Iomhair sing your graces.”

And then she would smile.

I don’t know how it worked. The foreign name would prickle their ears and they would turn to see her for the first time. And I mean truly see her. Their eyes would take in the half muddy hair, scratched nails, dried skin and dim eyes. But they always stopped at the smile. I always say they saw Gersemi’s face in those lips. And while most of them wouldn’t know the Vanir’s treasured name, they certainly felt her riches in that moment. It unfroze fingers and unlocked purses. Coins fell into her hands easier than any other.

And Saorla would thank them again. Their reward a respectful bow of her head and a fleeting playful laugh as she scampered away.

That was the power Maen Nkowainn mystique. Even the ignorant heathens of Divanhane were powerless to it. But she was no Mourning Lily kept in delicate ponds beneath the protective ferns of the most guarded apipaito. Many were those that thought Saorla an easy mark. She was, after all, just a girl on the deadly streets of Divanhane. Desperation always forces fools to overlook the obvious. No mere girl would survive as she did.

I remember the first man. She had long taken to the streets by herself, insisting I stay back in the safety of the nest. But as I grew bigger beneath her care, so too did my confidence. The first day I tried to follow her, I did exactly as she told. She had shown me how to keep hidden. She had taught me how to be as invisible as a rat. Surely she knew that I trailed her. Playful gifts were left in her wake: a handful of fresh dates, a shiny copper piece, a colourful ribbon tied to some broken wood.

Then I cam across the body. He was in a small plaza, lying in the centre of the cracked and broken tiles like some crumbled fountain statue. His blood ran thick across his face, pooling in a vibrant halo about his wide, empty eyes and gaping mouth.

It wasn’t the first corpse I had ever seen. Those litter the streets of the City of Dreams. But it was the first of hers. She wasn’t there, of course. With her brief start, she had disappeared from the scene to clean herself as best she could. She slid up to my side, gently coaxing me away from her work. She brushed my questions aside, never confessing her responsibility. But I knew. Blood still flecked the back of her neck. Fresh stains shone brightly along her sleeves.

No, Saorla was a cactus rose. To many, she appeared a simple, helpless child. But there were thorns hidden beneath her petals. And those that got close only realized too late how sharp they could be.

Saorla never worked in front of me. She always kept that hidden. Even after I struck out on my own, wanting to help with the burden of bringing back food and scraps for the nest, she never allowed me to join her. She always took my coin, tucking it away with a smile and apology. I had to learn to be the sneaky rat to follow her. She was attentive and quick. Days she caught me following she would simply disappear into the shuffling hordes and I wouldn’t see her until she crawled up to our nest with some bread or muscles in the evening. But there is nothing that is truly safe in Divanhane. Eventually, I learned how to track her without being seen. Then I saw her and her begging.

And I learned why she had kept that hidden from me.

Saorla did not squander her riches on fancy meals or little keepsakes for comfort like so many other beggars. She didn’t even bring her coin back to the nest for some secret stockpile. She sneaked off before the rise of the morning sun and worked long into the afternoon. I had watched others beg. I knew how successful most children were. And Saorla made in one day more than many would in a month. With pockets heavy and jingling with her coin, she turned and disappeared into the alleys.

Following her then was the hardest. She tracked through unfamiliar streets and beneath crumbling sections of those great outer walls. She tracked through some of the dark places – places I would never have dared to explore if it weren’t for the sudden flash of her red hair in their shadows.

She retreated into the Holes.

There are sections of city that the guards do not tread. There are places where even the bravest mercenary refuses to go. Only the addled or desperate would step foot within them. These were the oldest parts of Divanhane. It was where the primeval spirit of that forsaken place resided.

The oldest walls had sunken into the dark earth. Masonry lay shattered and broken as if the Aenir had tried to sunder that blighted pit from the earth. Rotted boards protected from bleached stone like cracked bones of an ancient skeleton. Newer barricades rose around them for no architect would dare hazard the crumbling tiles that collected in great heaps between the leaning husks of collapsed buildings. There were few entrances into the Holes and most of them were heavily guarded. But it wasn’t to keep others out.

For though they were derelict, the Holes were not abandoned. The foulest of Divanhane often found themselves within the sunken pits hiding beneath the collapsed roofs of the ancient settlement. The merchant princes delighted in throwing their most hated enemies in, knowing that what darkness clutched inside would dispose of their rivals more efficiently than they ever could. Stories abound of the place and most of the poor would instinctively shy away from those barren streets.

But the rats knew how to enter. The rats could scramble along the crumbling planks over the heads of anxious guards. They could scramble down walls that would collapse beneath the weight of a larger wanderer. They could squeeze through the tiniest of spaces and escape the dangers that prowled in the twilight.

With heart half in my throat, I ascended along the barricades. The stone crumbled beneath my feet and each skitter of a rock felt like a clarion bell to summon the monsters from the dark. The only reason I didn’t get lost was because Saorla also trod carefully through that district. She picked her way carefully between two buildings, heading towards the soaring outer wall. It was a dead end and I knew she would be trapped. My mind could only imagine the riches she must have saved by now. A veritable vault of coin must be tucked safely within the broken stone.

I scrambled to the ground and approached the alley with care. Fear of what dwelt in the area forced me to arm myself with a heavy piece of masonry crumbled at my feet. I proceeded carefully, unsure how I would confront her.

But as I drew to the end of the alley, I did not find Saorla and her treasure. Instead, I found a gaping hole. Saorla was nowhere to be found. I examined the walls, but they were far too unstable for her to have climbed. I drew a steadying breath and fought the nagging desire to run.

Hunger can override the sharpest of senses. And I had been hungry all my life.

I meant to charge in, but my feet caught on the crumbled brick and I fell into the darkness. The hole descended into the deep. Light was almost instantly swallowed in its depth and I stumbled for some sense of direction. My hand found the ragged wall and with careful fingers I proceeded. The path sloped downward and as I went, I felt moisture begin to cling to the rock.

The path suddenly gave away and I found myself in one of the yawning sewer tunnels. Water splashed along, a disgusting smell nearly overwhelming me. I looked about, my eyes trying to adjust to the gloom. I found a small edge that scrapped the filthy river and my bare toes wrapped around the edge of the jutting stone as I shimmied along. My back pressed against the sickeningly moist stone and I tried as hard as I could to breath through my mouth while holding my nostrils closed.

Wherever lay Saora’s nest, it was always well hidden. Surely, this was her own private sanctum and place hidden even from me. And no one would have followed her to it.

Eventually, my guiding hand slipped into nothingness and I almost fell from surprise. I knew not how long the sewer tunnel ran, but another hole had apparently been bored into the wall. Though as my fingers plucked its edges, it felt more like the tunnel had given out instead of someone ripping through. I scrambled inside, eager to escape the putrid waters and its overwhelming stench. I crawled along on hands and feet, but this journey wasn’t as long.

I pulled myself up into a small hold. The shadows clung heavy in that space, but I could see the dark mouths along the walls all around me. These mouths no doubt led into a veritable network of tunnels running under the city to this dim cellar. As I took a few tentative steps forward, I tripped over more broken stone, falling hard and banging my knee. I cried out.

There was movement in the dark and I felt hands fall to my thin arms. I didn’t resist, slowly raised to my feet as I turned to my helper. I found Saorla looking down at me confused.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” she whispered.

“Is this where you’ve hidden it!” I demanded. I wanted to brandish my brick but it was now lost in the darkness. She just drew me close, whispering careful words and patting my matted hair. I pushed her away. I was furious and hurt. I felt betrayed.

“Is this where it’s hidden?!” I cried again. Tears rolled my face.

“Where what is hidden?” she asked. But a Maen Nkowainn was born with a deceitful spirit. They had always said as much.

“I’ve seen you beg. I’ve seen how much coin you make. We’re eating stale bread and stolen oysters while you make a king’s riches each day! What have you done with it! Where is it?!”

I pushed her aside, scrambling deeper into the shadows. She called after me but I ignored her. I was no child anymore. I knew betrayal. I knew the streets. You looked after yourself and no one else. She must be saving up enough to escape. She must have hidden it deep in here where no one would find it.

And as my eyes adjusted, I discovered we were not alone.

Old hands fell upon my shoulders as a wizened face hunched down to stare into me with milky eyes. A scraggly beard tore his face like a thousand dried worms had burrowed their way from his cheeks and neck to lie dead and limp from his skin. His hands were clammy to the touch and sent shivers down my spine.

“Beware the hour of the crying crow!” he hissed with urgency. “They come, they come! Bar the holes and lock your door. He knows – oh he knows!”

I cried, wrestling from his grasp and falling backwards. Saorla was at my side quickly, her hands falling on me in the dark.

I looked at her, uncomprehending. She could read my confusion. She could always read what I was thinking. She said I was like a book, despite the masks I tried to wear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told you. But I didn’t think you would understand.”

“Understand what?!” I cried.

“I have to do it,” she said. “I have to help him. Don’t be mad, little one. Sometimes the world has plans for us we don’t quite get. Sometimes the Gods ask of us the hardest sacrifices.”

And it was then I knew. The little rat was bringing her master every last coin. Coin that could have been used for proper food. Coin that could have been used for shelter and clothes and tools. Every time I came back from an apipaito, every time I fell before a litter and was given some coin to avoid going to the magistrate over my injuries, every time one of the few compassionate hearts parted with their copper for some cold and hungry child wandering the street she had just collected it and brought it here.

She brought her work to the wrinkled hands of Old Turt. She turned over her copper and silver to the half blind man who sat in the dark, gulping like a fish his incomprehensible gibberish to the rats and walls. Dirty and worn were his robes. His blistered and cracked feet stamped in dry wrappings. Bloat toes poked from the top bearing cracked, yellow nails. His wiry hair, though long, was kept tied tightly in a knot on his head. It was a style I saw worn by only one kind of person. The elusive priests in their tiered temples and never opened their doors for the sick and dying upon their stoop. But their hair was oiled and shiny, pulled and combed elegantly straight.

I left then, despite her protests. I ran the streets. I skirted the walls and I clamoured over the roofs. I climbed the Maiden’s Tower, balancing on the crumbling wall and looking over the miserable port with its miserable people. I wondered over the many years I had foolishly trusted her. I wondered where we could have been had she not been secreting away her money on some decrepit old man. We were reduced to beggars and thieves all the while she spent what little we earned on some wretched fool who should be long in the grave.

In my bitterness and pain, I thought of all the places we could have been. I thought of the lost homeland of our people and it’s cool, green pastures. I thought of the many kingdoms and lands far from Divanhane’s oppressive walls. I thought of all the places she had told me in the dark as I lay hungry and weeping. We could have been anywhere. But she had doomed us to some insufferable existence.

My hands clenched in tight fists. There was only one course left to me.

And in those following days I learned the hardest lesson of my life. You can’t trust anyone. Everyone will let you down eventually. The closer you are, the greater the betrayal. The only protection, the only safety was to go alone. The only chance to survive was on your own.

The biggest rat does not feed the weakest. They feed on them.

I returned to the boy I had spent so much of my life running from. I sought out Shafra on his turf. The inevitable beating was a small price to say my piece. And I promised him the bite of flesh that he was due.

For I was getting old enough to understand that men had needs. And Shafra had no girls in his band. Some needs were hard to see to when what little coin you get must be spent on quieting the rumbling in your tummy.

Saorla was always careful. She knew the streets and their dangers. But compassion is the most expensive virtue and she foolish tried to keep hers.

It was no small task, luring her from her grounds. She could sense trouble and would abandon a roost at the first indication of treachery. There was no point in leading Shafra to our nest, she would sniff him out in a moment and be gone. The key was to draw her out and to force her willingly into danger. And I knew of the only bait that she would fall for.

She trusted me and paid for it.

To make it believable, I had to cut myself. I needed my own blood, leaving it in spattered patches through the street. There were no blades or tools to be had. Just my own cracked nails and rotted teeth. The sense of preservation is strong. I remember the first attempts to pierce my own flesh. My teeth pressed uselessly against my skin. Any time my jaw began to bite, I felt my hand flit from my mouth unwillingly. Long did I stand there, hand growing slick with saliva from constantly returning to my lips.

The bite came when I least thought of it. In my mind I was far from Divanhane. I was sitting before a warm fire, surrounded by merriment. Music danced in the air and the smell of roasted meat wafted in my nose. Faces barely known but ringed in bright orange and red sang and smiled around me. Warm arms wrapped around my shoulders and hands playfully tussled my hair. Someone offered me a succulent piece of meat. I bit in, deeper and deeper, imagining the sweet juices running down my chin.

The rest wasn’t hard. Stumbling from our shelter I slid through the streets. Most make way for a wounded animal, some shred of humanity staying their hand until the body stops moving. I collapsed in a plaza quiet and alone. I lay on the dusty tiles, my mind still transported somewhere far away. Somewhere pleasant and cool.

The moon was rising when last she stepped into the square. I think I heard her voice. Her hands were upon me, rolling me over to investigate my wound. She turned my hand over and over, gently prodding the tear that had long since stopped bleeding. Then she raised a hand to my forehead, checking my temperature.

At last she gave me that sweet smile. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

They came from the dark then. And she bristled at their movement. Her hands clenched into fists as they circled about her, like a pack of hungry dogs circling a wounded calf. Shafra flashed his cruel smile, looking her up and down.

“Did you do this?” she cried, her voice hard with fury and rage. “I will tear you limb from limb!”

But Shafra merely laughed.

“Quite the spirited prize little Koudi brought us, eh boys? I think I’ll enjoy this more than I thought.”

And she turned upon me. I imagine her face looked much like I did when I entered Old Turt’s hole. I was already on my feet, ducking from their circle and heading towards the alley. Her face welled with tears as anger and shock swept her. I think there was something else there but what I will never know. That face will be etched forever in my memory. For it is how she is remembered; the last moment I saw her.

Shafra’s gang moved in for their reward and I heard the scrape begin. I didn’t wait to see the outcome. Saorla was by herself and there were five boys. The odds weren’t in her favour. But even if she miraculously succeeded, I wouldn’t wait for her fury to turn to me.

I raced to Old Turt’s hole. I had visions in my mind. Visions I would see become a reality and I had to get there before she could take another one of her hidden routes. I could picture it now, the old man sleeping upon a small fortune garnered from beggar children. I had seen madness before. Those that run dry, parched and desperate as they stumble frantically through the streets. Their behaviour erratic, they throw themselves pleadingly upon any nearby. The sun glares down and as more and more keep their distance the last vestiges of their inhibitions shred away until they are practically crawling naked through the dust. Sometimes the guard will come and make them disappear. Sometimes they croak and drag themselves until at last they stop moving and collapse in the dirt.

Then the rats come.

I was at Old Turt’s hole, guiding myself along the sewer wall with my tender hand. As I stepped into that small tunnel, I reached down and picked up a sizable stone. It wouldn’t take much. I had defended myself with less. A few raps to his head would take him down and then I would be free to find my hard earned coin. Then I could pay some caravan to take me far from here. Far from this damnable city and its miserable people.

As I emerged into his cellar, I heard movement and readied my offence. I stepped slowly, trying to keep my feet as soft and quiet as possible. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a mass shiver and shake in the dark. My muscles tensed. My soul was prepared.

I raised my stone but as the shape drew erect, I felt my fingers loosen.

It was just a babe, swaddled in cloth and resting in a basket. Confusion caught me the second time in that hold and I felt my weapon become disarmed. It clattered against my feet.

Its sound awoke a small chorus of cries. All in the dark were various bundles of rags and baskets. They each gave off a disgruntled wail, startling their neighbour and awakening the next. Down the line they went until all were shaking small fists in the dark. Toothless mouths called out into the night. They called out unanswered at the startled child standing amongst them.

There came a sound from further in, the scrapping of a door on stone. Shuffling in with wrapped feet and ragged robes came doting Old Turt. A crusty loaf of bread was carried in one hand and a small glass of milk in the other. About and about he went, tending each in turn. He’d dip the bread in the milk then raise it to their wailing mouths. He stammered and whispered as he went. Always some incomprehensible gibberish. When last he tended the crying babes he turned to me, looking at me mutely as he held out the remainder of the meal.

I took it, wordlessly and he cracked a crooked smile before shuffling off into the dark and through a door.

And perhaps then I began to understand why there were few children lost amongst the beggars. Even my earliest memories were of cold and stone – of squeaking in darkness.

I think I cried then. And some of those tears were over the realization that my fortune was not here. It never was. There are no riches to be found in Divanhane.

I fled that hole. I ran through the streets, distraught and alone. The next few nights were spent in unfamiliar quarters with unfamiliar dangers. But I dared not the deepest shadows. I feared finding hidden holes filed with awful revelations. More than once I attempted a careless pocket and was rewarded with a severe beating from the guards. Each kick and punch felt like penance justly earned.

I did search for Shafra later. Much later than I would care to admit. It was with sunken heart that from far observations I didn’t see Saorla amongst his number. I returned to her familiar territory, but the streets were bare of her presence. Even some of the regulars seemed to sense her absence. At long last I returned to our shelter but it had long been trashed and scavenged.

As the weeks went by, I searched farther and farther. I don’t know what I expected to find. Perhaps forgiveness, though I knew I deserved none. The weeks turned to months and the months turned to years. But Divanhane was a big city and you could spend a lifetime searching its darkest corners and still not find all that’s hidden.

Once I was larger clever, I followed Shafra. If there was one place I could earn my answers it was from him. I trailed him for weeks until I was able to slip past his natural suspicion. After many long days of distant watching and following, I finally found his little home carved cleverly in the rafters of a dockyard warehouse. I waited until the deepest of nightfall before I sneaked in. It had taken many months of scrimping and saving my earnings to afford the pure alcohol and match. But the reward was worth it. The pure but scented arak was known for its strength and ability to be missed by suspicious priests. I’d soaked his tattered pile of rags in it so even he didn’t realize what he nestled down in.

When last I was assured he was sound asleep, I dropped the match. He awoke quite quickly but the flames were faster. He was shouting and screaming, trying desperately to put them out. In his fear, he tumbled from the rafters to the warehouse floor. I quickly stamped out the blaze and descended after him. He lay groaning and broken on the ground below. I put out the fire still clinging to the remains of his clothes and pink flesh.

I asked after Saorla. But even after his fall, a shred of his street pride remained. He feigned ignorance, then he taunted me. But he was in no position to defend himself. And a boy can only defend against so much. I had long learned how to hurt. Shafra eventually divulged his answers. Saorla, it seemed, was far to scrappy for his boys to contend with. So they simply sold her to a passing trader. She had been beaten into unconsciousness so she didn’t even fetch a decent price.

I left him on the floor. Perhaps some worker found him in the morning. Or they found his body. I don’t know. I never saw him again.

A nameless, loosely described merchant is impossible to track. I searched as hard as I could, asking for a red-haired girl on the market. But none had memory for a transaction dealt so long ago. I would go to the markets every day asking. Months passed and the answer was always the same. After awhile, some merchants would share rumours of possible sightings far from the city. I can’t know if they were true or if they were just saying it to be rid of me.

When I was big enough to hold a sword intimidatingly, I took the path most who survived that long did. I sold myself as a guard and mercenary for a caravan. At long last, I finally got to put the walls of the City of Dreams behind me. And I’ve never looked back at them since.

I could die happy if I never see them again.

I may or may not have accidentally concussed myself over the last couple of days. Consequently, this next chapter of the Kinslayer Chronicle is a little late. I’m sorry, team.

Arab City by Wassily Kandinsky (1905)

Chapter 8 – The City of Dreams

There exists on the coast of a great inner sea a city of such size as to appear like an encroaching mountain on the expansive shore. Still are the waters that lap against its dry piers as hungry eyes look over the ramparts to shores too distant to see from the worn stone. It is not a hospitable place. The first settlers were nought but simple herders and fishers looking to catch what they could from the waters and plains. But south of the city stretches a long steppe and control of it had long rested in the hands of a domineering warlord dynasty. Their’s was a harsh rule that drove many people to seek escape from the Dahrmour’s iron grasp. Many of the refugees fled north and came upon the small settlement. It claimed no fealty to the tyrant and its people preserved their independence through stalwart stubbornness and a valuable alliance with the local nomads. The walls of the city thickened and more hands held to its gates. In time, the nuisance of the village had grown into a troubling city. But the warlords couldn’t just siege and conquer. For the city had grown wealthy as well. Separating the Dahrmour’s plains was a large mountain range that proved problematic for traders hoping to continue east. The tariffs raised by the warlords grew worse and worse as their war campaigns drew longer and longer and alternative routes became more desirable. When once overland paths had become blocked, a guild of interested parties turned to plying the waves. And while wood for ships would have to be imported, there was but only one fortified and prepared location for such travel. Thus, the city of Divanhane was raised on the backs of foreign interests looking to subvert the control of the power-hungry Dahrmour. Its wealth was practically assured on the maiden voyage as the first ship pressed off into the salty depths. Even if the Dahrmour wished to interfere, they had long ignored the northern development on their doorstep. By the time the intrepid merchants had crossed and returned with wagons bursting with valuable commodities, it was far too late for the warlords. As their tariff revenue dried up, more and more wealth poured into the ancient walls. By the time the Dahrmour moved their forces to take what they thought was rightfully theirs, a sizable mercenary army was awaiting along the plains and salt coast. A fleet anchored just off-shore. The battle was short and the results conclusive. Divanhane was independent and independent it would remain. Thus, grew the City of Dreams. And grew it did. More and more came to its banks. Thicker and thicker burgeoned the walls. The city became a shuddering, bulging, bloated mass upon the enclosed sea and those that were drawn to its tales of splendour and wealth were just lured into its honeyed depths to feed an insatiable hunger that longed for more: more trade, more food and more people. The streets themselves were clogged with people. Shoulder to shoulder they shook despite the heat. Their frail bodies were clothed in nothing but dirty and bleached rags as they shambled on through the mindless crowd. The streets were clogged streams, filled with more waste than the choked stone tunnels that drained the sewers into the dead sea. Carts attempting to plow through were bogged by the filthy fingers that spilled over the rails. Cracked nails wormed with minds of their own, searching ever tirelessly for scraps and castoffs. I can scarcely remember my earliest days behind those stone walls. My oldest memories are wisps of sensations. Dominant was a dark cold that clammed the skin and made the smallest of teeth chatter in a city constantly gasping beneath its own heat. I have recollections of wandering the piers, dipping filthy feet into the staining waters choked with refuse pitched from the streets. The smell of salt and desperation hung heavy over the city like a perfume. So many came to its streets with dreams of riches and opportunity. The city was always in need of able bodies to man its walls. The merchants were always looking for hands to operate their ships. But when bodies were in great supply, skill became cheap. The merchants, ever saving more coin, paid less and less for labour forcing more and more families into the suffocating streets. And always were the walls under siege. But it was no uniformed army that assailed the faded gates, the stones once vibrant hues rubbed into nothingness. For beyond the rusted portcullis were the huddled, wailing hordes of refugees. They arrived, fleeing the tyranny of the Dahrmour. They arrived, seeking shelter from the sweltering expanse. They arrived, souls spurred by the long stale rumours of wealth and opportunity. They squatted before the gates and cried for entry. Those that were refused found what comfort they could on the short grass and waited for entrance – one way or another. Desperation was the only currency they exchanged. The stories of the Walls of Divanhane are infamous. Had I not seen it with my own eyes, even I would have never believed the tales of mothers tossing their babes through the closing gates knowing they would not raise until the morning and hoping some generosity would be spared for a mewling, abandoned child in the fair streets. If the walls were not so high nor so thick, perhaps those mothers would have held their children close. For passing the gate did not grant entrance into paradise. Upon the other side they swarmed like locusts – those that had managed to sneak through. Every measure was taken to bar them but the poor proved far more resourceful than the patrolling guards. Each gate opened into a veritable slum. It was impossible to pass without a legion of palms raised as husky mouths pleading for any charity. But most that walked by were destitute wanderers and workers themselves. However, exhaustion and hunger wore any recognition from the beggar’s eyes. While the streets were clogged, the alleys were impassable. Around every corner and beneath every shadow lay the boney, wrinkled legs sticking sickly from worn rags. These bodies, for they were little else, lay side beside like discarded dolls. Each limb slowly shook to life at the sound of approaching footsteps. Sunken eyes turned, lit by the barest glimmers of hope. Mouths agape, sounds wholly inhuman would echo from parched lips. Sometimes it was coherent but usually it was a scratchy, guttural cough and a moan of rasping despair. The lungs squeezed little else from hoarse throats that had long forgotten speech. It was impossible to distinguish man and woman in those masses. It was just a writhing carpet of flesh seeking brief respite in the shadows. But always the hands reached upturned, supported on brittle protruding bones that pressed against the dry sky as if they wished to escape the withering husk into the wide heavens. The first time time wandering across these “forsaken trails” was unsettling. Only the fleas were fat as they jumped from body to body. For it is said for every honest citizen of Divanhane, there are five begging. But when you wander the streets, you wonder if there are truly any honest citizens. It was impossible to not see the problem of the poor, but there was no outreach. Guards merely tried their best to pen them in their poor districts but even that proved impossible. So great was the destitution that it spilled to the wealthy sections of town, shambling rags just as common amongst the green vined homesteads as the mouldy wrecks of the docks. The merchant caste sought shelter in their heavy palanquins. Borne by many hands, they were lifted above the groaning masses secure behind heavy curtains. Most of these vehicles were borne by small bands. As mentioned, labour was cheap in Divanhane and it cost practically nothing to hire a personal train of six or eight men to bear a single member through the dusty streets. It was the wealthiest that had the fewest teams. Only they could afford the strongest or pay to keep them fed, watered and trained. While many watched from the stones at the colourful clothes and glittering adornments trying to gauge who carried the fattest purse, it was actually the health of its servants that was the real tell. So much coin was spent on cheap dyes and second rate cloth. And beggars were poor judges of quality. They would see the most worn wool as a sacred treasure, let alone be able to identify silk from angora or even coir. But as with everything, we tend to see what we wish and so many threw themselves before lesser merchants, pleading and begging for scraps that would never come. Not that the richest were benevolent. There is an art in begging and it comes from knowing your fellow man. You have to see beyond their disguise – the image they dust themselves in before they step from their door – and read into their hearts. The wealthiest were often the stingiest, their arrogance and selfishness forbidding them from ever assisting those dying beneath their noses. Their litters were more like fortresses and their carriers had a fierce, almost hungry look. You could see in their eyes and their arms that they were only rewarded for succeeding in their job. Marks of punishment or idleness were the signs of the greatest wastes of time. No, the palanquins to seek were the ones with the contented carriers. They were well cared, healthy and humoured. They spoke of a master that saw them more than just a beast to bear them above the unmentionables. Inside beat a heart that could see past the dirt and filth to see a fellow scraping along the streets. Compassion is the most expensive traits and those were the palanquins that you threw yourself before. Yes, scribe, I begged. I prostrated and I pleaded. I did what I must to survive. For there were only two kinds that skulked the streets of the City of Dreams. They were the rich and the poor in a sense. But the rich weren’t the ones with the most coin in their purse but the most food in their belly. The poor were simply the food for others. Inevitably, the rats were the rich but man is capable of much to keep themselves from being the poorest. If you were to ask me who was the wealthiest within Divanhane, I would tell you it was the mother rat. She was never wanting. Whether it was the stilled limbs of a forgotten body, abandoned and ignored in the shadows of the streets or the succulent wares of a merchant prince’s stores impossible to protect. Holes exist in every guard and no merchant could keep the vermin from slipping through. Things had a tendency to disappear in the crowded streets and no amount of coin could afford the unfaltering guard or the impenetrable lock. How they tried, though. How the rich locked themselves in their apipaito; the lavish mansions with terraced walls and green trellises that rose on what raised ground there was so they could survey over their city of dust. How they guarded their doors and windows with watchful eyes suspicious of every flitting shadow and skittering sound beneath their garden. Their quarters were like small military encampments, patrolled with such frequency by foreign mercenaries and guards who could tell little from locals and refugees. They were poor hounds, easily avoided or misled. For the clever rat, every home had a hole. For the observant rodent, one could watch and learn from others. So simple is a lock, a masterful piece of magic if ever there was one weaved. So many foolish people flock to its allure, putting faith in its false promise of security. But they are uncomplicated devices. To those who watch and listen, they can learn the tricks to make them as valuable as a pile of dirt. They can make them as secure as the wind on the plains. Yes, I stole. I snatched and I sneaked. I broke into those apipaito and even the homes or establishments of the less well to do. Wealth in Divanhane is a fluid thing, passing from the poor to the rich and back again. In the dust and the heat, it becomes clear that all is theft. The rich charge exorbitant prices to people who can barely afford them. They buy at such a point that it would make a beggar weep. They pay magistrates and city watch to twist the letters of their law to confiscate the property of their enemies. Those that they catch are interred in the Holes. They are sent to live amongst the rats. And in those dank pits, the rich and the poor blend together. But only one ever escapes. Only one ever gets out into the greater hole of the city. But a child isn’t born a thief. He isn’t brought into this world a liar. My earliest days on the streets of Divanhane are a blur of hunger, heat and misery. So quick is material wealth stripped from you. So fast are those that share your aching pain to turn upon you. Any memories of my parents were gone before I could remember them. There was just the hunger and the pain. There was the rough stones at night, and the groaning of grumbling stomachs and afflicted flesh. In the dark you seek what warmth you can, pressing up against strangers and strange bodies. In time, the fleas and flies become a second layer. You hardly notice the itch or the unconscious fingers as they search at widening holes in your shirt. In the morning you awake to resume your wanderings and your endless hunt. If you think there would be mercy for a child in those streets then you would be wrong. So often are they used. So often are they just tools for the more clever. Compassion pays the most to the lost ones and there are those with hungrier eyes and stronger fists that would press those hands into service. Bloodied and bruised make all the more pathetic. Shafra was his name. He was a boy nary six seasons my senior. A tall, lanky runt barely on the cusp of manhood. He had the dark hair and eyes of the locals. No one knew where he came from but he was not born into this life of filth and misery. Perhaps he had stolen away on one of the ships as they sailed across the dead sea. Maybe he had arrived with a hopeful merchant family that quickly got consumed by the wealthy merchant princes in their garden fortresses. Not that it mattered. He ended where so many others do but unlike those that form the forsaken trails, he learned quickly about life on the street. He found me on the steps to the docks, a half piece of fish clutched in my fingers. I can scarcely remember how I came to possess such a feast. Perhaps I had wrestled it from the birds. But just as I had stolen from those smaller than I, I too would become victim to the bigger animal. I can remember his face clearly emerging from the alley. It seemed to coalesce from that darkness. The eyes carried the shadows in them as he looked my way. A flash of yellow, crooked teeth and I knew. I sat for but a moment to enjoy the soft sea breeze before he fully formed from his emptiness. At his side were a few of his gang. Lesser boys but few that I recognized. Those that I did were meagre creatures that I had long written off to the suffocating alleys about the gates. But they found new life beneath the direction of Shafra even if they peered about in that distracted way that the weak always do. They looked without seeing. They were little more than extra hands for Shafra to command. But Shafra had no interest in their plays, and he strolled towards me, his long arms lanky at his side. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was like a scared little rabbit pressed against a corner. I had never seen such hunger before. At least, not that kind of hunger. I made to escape but the young ones never run fast. The older have longer legs and longer reach. I was tackled to the ground, the flesh of the fish crumbling between my fingers. Shafra drew to his feet, looming over me and grabbing for my prize. I foolishly tried to hold on to it. Between our brief struggle, the meal was ripped asunder and scattered to the ground in useless, crushed pieces. The birds were upon it, bold enough to wrest the scraps from the scrambling fingers of the children. Shafra regarded me with such ferocious disdain. “Flea ridden mule,” he hissed, his foot lashing out. His toes caught my ribs, striking again and again in the tattered rags of his shoe. “You stupid, flea ridden, pox-covered mule! Don’t you know whose territory you’re in?” “That was mine!” I cried. For my insolence, I got a pair of knuckles into my face. “You best get me some copper, mule!” Shafra ordered. “Ruining my lunch like that, you maggot. I want a copper for a stone of meat else I’ll take a stone’s worth from your own hide! You hear me! This is Shafra’s land and you will pay me for it!” They beat me that day. They beat me every day I stepped into their territory without his copper. I still have the mark where he bit me on my arm. Some marks stay with you your entire life. For it was not the guard that was the greatest threat to the rat. It was the other rats. We didn’t hold any reservations. In our eyes we didn’t see a destitute child. We only saw competition. Before the palanquins we were desperate darlings. But in the shadows and the alleys we were cruel overlords. Worst, we were the hardest to escape. Unlike the guards in the mail, we were small. We could follow through the cracks and the holes. We could scale the terraces and trellises and discover the cleverest holes in the rooftops. The bigger the rat, the harder the bit. The only way to survive was to be smarter. You couldn’t be quicker. You couldn’t be more pathetic. Whimpering and crying could stall the armoured fist of a mercenary, but the children just laughed at tears. They knew all the tricks. Shafra taught me an important lesson. He taught me that the biggest threats aren’t the obvious ones. Guards did sweeps in a vain attempt to bring some sort of law to the crowded streets of Divanhane. They had the weight of the law and the coin of the merchants behind them. But even though they were wrapped in steel, they didn’t know where to bite or punch to hurt the hardest. They didn’t how to scrape the fungus from the dank basements and mash it into a paste that you could spit in the eyes and cause blindness or delirium for days. They didn’t know how to follow you like an unwanted shadow, to watch and see where you crawled to hide from the city. They didn’t know how to wiggle into the darkest corners that you thought were safe. And they didn’t know how to make you really hurt.

I bet you’re wondering how long this Kinslayer Chronicle can go for? If you’re asking that quest, then you don’t know me very well.

Random Google image. I apologize to the artist who created it but I don’t know who you are.

Chapter 7 – Intermission

He stopped his narration. At first the Chronicler thought maybe he was pausing for effect or catching his breath. But as the moment extended, he looked up to find Koudi staring at his dark black walls with their rusted weapons. He refused to face the Chronicler and his eyes seemed to glimmer in the light filtering in from the window. The Chronicler turned to his notes, scanning quickly over what he’d just written.

Truthfully, he paid little attention to the details of his clients. Once he began writing, he got lost in their voices. His mind worked the syllables and messages into the cypher and their stories were little more than a stream of sound his fingers raced to repeat. The Chronicler had spoken with thieves and rapists, murderers and liars. His was not a position to judge. Divorcing himself from the content and dwelling merely on the transmission made it easier, almost unthinking.

When in the height of his scribing, he was little more than a branch on a tree, weaving and bending to the passage of the wind through him.

So, it took him a few moments to realize the final tale he’d been told as he stretched weary digits.

“I… am sorry,” he offered weakly. The Chronicler wasn’t really accustomed to responding to a person’s tale but the innkeeper slowly nodded, his lips pulling tight over his teeth as he blinded his eyes. The Chronicler turned towards the kitchen to find that Lafnis had taken up residence at the bar. She didn’t even feign ignorance, merely resting her head upon her hand as she watched the two men do their work with a bored gaze.

The Chronicler was, figuratively, left on his own.

“I’m sure they were lovely people.”

The innkeeper took a slow breath, finding solace in his mug. He took down three large gulps before peering at the drained interior before waving it towards the young woman. He took another long breath to calm himself then turned sharply towards the bar when there was no immediate reaction to address his quivering vessel. Lafnis stretched her back, drawing slowly to her feet to grab his mug and disappear into the back room.

“I’ve… I’ve never shared this tale with anyone,” Koudi resumed, his look of annoyance quickly returning to somber sorrow. “I suppose I kept it buried, hidden for it wounded me so deeply.”

“The loss of one’s parents… it is tragic.”

Koudi turned towards him.

“No! One loses a shoe or a coin. One does not lose their kin. They were taken – nay, stolen from me! I share this with you, Chronicler, if only to provide insight into actions to come. For I can not say in that moment I had become the Kinslayer but it would be a falsehood to say that it did not leave an impression upon myself. I was, after all, not even a man yet forced to face such harsh cruelties that life has to offer. Who among us can say they weathered such hardships?”

“Iomhair.”

“Excuse me?”

The Chronicler reassessed his position.

“You asked who had to face such hardships. Forgive me, my knowledge of Maen Nkowainn lore is rather incomplete, but was not great Iomhair orphaned as well?”

“I… suppose you are right.”

“And then there’s mighty Aslaug who, when but a child, was hidden in a harp to be spirited away to safety from the fate in store for her parents. Even the great Aenir Forseti was orphaned by the hand of betrayal of his father and the grip of grief over his mother. Course, if myth is to be believed, it’s rather common given the strife and conflict so many heroes are born into.”

“Fine, fine!” Koudi waved with a frown. “Perhaps there is some poetics to it then. Are you prepared?”

He regarded the Chronicler intensely as Lafnis dropped a fresh mug before him. The Chronicler stood, taking a moment to stretch his back and work some feeling back into sore muscles. The innkeeper waited, but impatiently. His fingers tapped the wood and he kept his intense look until the Chronicler sat once more and gathered up his quill.

He had words to share and he was going to share them now.

“Let me describe to you true suffering.”

Diablo III Tristram Caravan Concept. Copyright Blizzard Entertainment and associated artists.

Everyone has a story. We each walk a different path, navigating the dark waters of life. The transition from childish innocence is rarely gentle or unremarkable. And we are never prepared for those challenges that arise, no matter what we think at the time.

I was ten seasons old. A budding young man, in my own eyes. I had graced the stage of our wagons in my debut performance. I delivered with grace and aplomb my lines, enacting the posture and gestures I meticulously studied beneath my father. Though it was a small and overall unimportant part of the production, the sight of such a young boy delivering the song written by his own mother had spurred the audience to their feet.

It was the first standing applause I had received and I remember coming from the stage full of the ethers. I felt like never before and there was equal amount of applause from my kin behind the curtain as I had from in front. My mother was waiting and began helping me from my costume. Pressed up against the racks of wardrobes, I tuned out her unceasing adoration. My young ears heard something hushed between the hanging shirts and robes. I leaned closer, hearing my Caenn and father speaking in the dark shadows of the ship.

“… a budding performer if I’ve ever heard one,” rang the deep voice of my Caenn. I could see but the barest slivers through cracks between the stage clothes.

“A father couldn’t be prouder.” I knew immediately the two men were talking about me. I leaned closer to the clothes as my mother fought with the knots in the folds at the back of my jacket.

“I suppose there is no better time,” the Caenn said. “There is some matter which I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Uisdean.”

“Words are meant to be shared,” my father nodded politely.

“It’s about the boy. And while I accept your wife as one of us, these words are meant for ones of the blood.”

My father bristled. But you did not raise your voice to the Caenn no matter the slight. He was the head of the caravan. He was the face of the troupe. He was the father of the family and his wishes were our commandments. No greater position existed amongst the disparate Maen and we held fast to what traditions we still held. Traditions were really all we had.

“It is not our ways to hood our speech,” my father said after a moment. “What needs to be spoken to me needs to be spoken to my beloved.”

“We do not take those not of the road into our midst either,” the Caenn said sternly, “but here we are. I do not call on my command often, Uisdean, and it is with heavy heart that I do so now.”

“Very well. Speak your peace, but know I will hold no shadows from my wife.”

“That is your prerogative,” the Caenn said. He paused as he collected his thoughts. “I wonder if this is truly something you would wish to share with her.”

“I do not like this skulking about, my Caenn,” my father said, the respect quickly slipping from his tone, “I would ask it out if it must truly come.”

“Koudi is truly a gifted child, is he not?”

The change caught my father off-guard and he didn’t respond at first. As he opened his mouth, I felt my vest catch tightly about my ribs and my breath stuck in my chest. I gasped, turning to my mother as she pulled furtively upon the strings.

“Forgive me,” she apologized. “These appear to be quite stuck.”

The costume loosened and and I turned back to invasive window into the private discourse, but I missed my father’s response.

I heard my Caenn’s all to clearly though.

“Tell me, how long did it take for him to learn the lute?”

“Well, I don’t think one every truly stops learning…” my father began.

“Fine. How long did it take for him to play his first song? And I do mean play, not pluck upon it like some wastrel.”

My father scratched his head, eyes searching the cramped walls of the ship as if somewhere in the assorted jars and bursting trunks lay the answer.

“I don’t rightly know.”

“Did it even take to midday?”

“Perhaps not.”

“And how long did it take you to learn your first song?”

“What are you suggesting, my Caenn?”

“Your boy is bright, Uisdean. There is no hiding that fact. Everyone speaks the same. ‘Oh Koudi, you should have seen him juggling today, learned our entire evening routine in a matter of minutes.’

“’Little Koudi asked me the damnedest thing. Pestering me about alchemical quandaries that I haven’t heard discussed outside the halls of the Academy.’

“’Saw Koudi interacting with some of the local boys. Kept teasing the smithy’s son that his father was smelting his metals all wrong. Took the child’s own dulled sword and twisted it between two rocks to prove his point. And I kept asking myself who could have even taught him such things?’”

The Caenn mimicked each voice perfectly. I knew each speaker immediately. Iori was always an incorrigible braggart, always showing off his juggling skills with his brother Ioan to anyone that would give them the time to perform. He got the curious inflection of tinker Jaako’s accent who had joined our caravan late in life after we found him peddling in one of the villages. His half Maen heritage had been a point of contention from the other caravans but we welcomed him as if he were a long lost brother. Then there was nosey Mair who always seemed to be watching us kids no matter where we got off too. She just seemed to known exactly when we would be getting into trouble.

I didn’t think it much. Everyone in our caravan always smiled and laughed over my questions. I couldn’t grasp why this conversation would require such privacy – something unheard of amongst my people.

My father seemed to struggle as well.

“I suppose… when you mention it… he does seem to have some natural talents. But who amongst us hasn’t demonstrated some skill or usefulness? It is our gift to excel at something and to ply that gift to the benefit of our people.”

“A gift is understandable,” the Caenn said, “but Koudi is different. He sings better than you. He dances better than Arlyn. He knows as much as Jaako and he captains as well as I. Whatever he turns his mind to, he learns. It is more than a gift, Uisdean. It is unnatural.”

“What do you mean,” my father spat. I gasped as his face contorted in anger. Never had I seen someone be so disrespectful to the Caenn. I felt my costume loosen and my mother apologize as she seemed to think she had tightened it once again. I reluctantly turned from my spy hole to give her an encouraging smile and to release the shirt from around my arms before turning back.

“… that is preposterous!” my father hissed in muted rage. I struggled to piece together what I had missed. “Those are just stories. Tales! Fabrications used to entertain the masses and earn us some coin. You must – no, can’t truly believe such nonsense!”

“I understand,” the Caenn said slowly, “if it were my own son-”

“How can you possibly understand? You have no son! Is that what this is about? Are you jealous because you are as barren as the Antioche ruins? Thus, you feel the need to slander your own kin’s blood?”

There was an emphasis on kin that made me realize it was not meant in the general sense we used when referencing the Maen people. For a moment, I realized that I didn’t really know anything about the Caenn’s family. Well, we were his family but I didn’t know of any wives, siblings or children of his. Most familial ties were meaningless amongst a people that raised others as their own.

The Caenn was silent for a moment, allowing my father his moment to seethe. When last he spoke, he reached a hand for my father’s shoulder but the performer pulled his body away.

“I have kept my council for so long but it is no longer my own observations. There are whispers amongst the troupe. It was only a matter of time. The Shanahanait has began muttering of portents. This is not something we can simply ignore any longer. Some action will need to be taken soon and I wish, for my love of you and your child, that it is the least extreme.”

“You blame her, don’t you?”

“There is no fault to cast. It is what it is.”

“You think she’s tainted our line!” my father sneered. He stepped up to the Caenn and for the first time I realized they were of similar height. “You superstitious fool. You should listen to yourself. Portents and Shanahanait? Petty theatrics and tricks for wrestling the coin from the weak minded. They are nothing but stage magic and foolishness and you have bought it with your heart and mind!”

“I keep my people!” the Caenn replied. “I listen to what I must and judge what I need to ensure their livelihood. When one whispers of Ciar an Ankou, I dismiss. When two cry, I counsel. When three warn, I pay heed.”

“My child is not going to destroy this troupe!”

“I know.”

And there was finality in the Caenn’s reply that my father could not ignore. My father went to reply more but my mother gave a shout.

I then realized that she was struggling to wrestle the girdle from my body and I had been ignoring her the entire time. I quickly wiggled from my brais, pulling the rest of the costume from my body until I was naked and scrambling back to the clothes pile. But as I raised my eye to the hole, my father and the Caenn had gone.

Annoyed, I pushed my mother’s assistance away and dressed myself. The rest of the evening was darkly despite the exuberance of the rest of our troupe. They laughed and danced in merriment for the coin we’d earned. People still cheered and chattered about my debut but it was hollow praise now. They saw the change in my mood but nothing they offered could cheer me.

My mind was still spinning with the quiet conversation between my Caenn and my father. I didn’t grasp its meaning or importance immediately. I knew not what Ciar an Ankou was save that it was something from the old tongue.

I saw my father that night, but he avoided me. I desperately wanted to speak with him but knew not how to bring up that I had spied upon their conversation. He seemed reluctant to see me himself, and when a Maen wishes to be scarce they can be a damn trouble to find.

But I would have my answers and sooner than I wished.

It happened on an ominous day, with black clouds menacingly overhead. They have a way of happening on dark days.

A wagon had been prepared. I remember waking from my bunk to find most of my things were gone. A fresh pair of clothes waited on the floor, folded with a small four stringed citole polished and sitting atop. I didn’t realize this was their way of saying goodbye.

I emerged from the ship to see my mother waiting for me. She had her haired bundled up in a plain shawl. She didn’t look at me when I emerged, simply calling my name in a soft voice and beckoning me over. We had one of the small wagons with a single horse harnessed to the front. The back was filled with our things. A few trunks held our belongings and sacks were tucked with some foodstuffs to see us along the road. A couple of blankets were rolled for sleeping and my father’s lute lay wrapped and protected amongst them.

But my father wasn’t there.

I joined my mother’s side, asking her what was going on. But she wouldn’t as she helped me onto the front.

“Make sure to put on a heavy cloak.” Those were here only words. I crawled into the back, finding three new ones each measured to our size. I slipped mine on and she tucked my hair beneath the hood, pulling it tight over my face.

Looking into her eyes I could see they were weary and bloodshot. She was distant and distracted, mostly working through impulse as she busied with my attire. The whole while she didn’t turn to the caravan, making sure she found something to keep her mind and hands busy. Once I was settled and cloaked, she moved over the horse, checking its harness and muzzle, absently brushing its hair and even inspecting its shoes.

After awhile there was sound from the ships and I turned to see my father emerge. He climbed down the side, landing on the ground and making his way over to us. I saw some of our kin make their way to the side. The Caenn was at the front. It wasn’t until my father was almost upon us that I heard it.

From the ship came the saddest song I have ever heard. It took me a moment to realize it was the dirge. I had only heard it once before and that was when we passed the ancient city of Tir Tairngire. It was a haunting experience, awakening to hear this morose sound floating through the hull of the ship. I came to the deck to find most the troupe gathered about the rails singing a tune both strange and familiar. All eyes watched the distant ruins with a mixture of reverence and anguish. I listened in rapt fascination as we rolled by and once the song ended, everyone went below deck, not mentioning a word of it.

And now I got to listen to it for a second time. Somehow, this last one was sadder.

My father mounted the wagon without a word. He took the reigns in his hands and snapped the horse into motion. Neither of my parents turned back, but I wasn’t nearly as strong. Each face seemed stone blank, only their mouths moved in unison to the tune that warbled from the deck.

My mother may have cried that day. But it wasn’t in sight of the caravan. It wasn’t in sight of my family.

Those days in the wagon were the bleakest. I knew not where we went. I spent much of the time riding in the back with our things. I would absently pluck at my father’s lute to pass the time. Conversations were short between us. A tension hung heavier than the black clouds and it kept a still silence in its harsh embrace.

At night, we would pull over and sleep beneath the wagon. We cooked what food we could by the fire, making sure to leave little trace when we were done in the morning. I didn’t even know where we headed but I’m not sure my parents did either.

I would like to think my last memories of them were happy ones. I would like to remember them as they were on the great landships when they laughed and they sang. Those were good days. Those were the days of my childhood. I’ll still remember the night when the Caenn went to get them from the ship to listen to me play my song.

But for your records, scribe, I will detail to you the final days.

We were wandering the empty roads. I don’t even remember what kingdom it was. Not that it matters, all of them look the same when you’re travelling the worn, forgotten paths. It was cold and miserable and I remember my parents were arguing over food. My mother wanted us to head off the main route to try and find some small village we could barter or entertain in. My father wanted to press on to the city. He was certain we had enough supplies to make it and believed our prospects were better. I’m not sure what prospects he had in his mind. I can’t ever picture him working in a shop or on a ship.

We pulled over to the side of a small forest. The skies looked like they were ready to open once more and I wasn’t looking forward to another wet night beneath the wagon. My mother wanted to make sure we got a cooked meal before the downpour. I was often sent out to fetch firewood. And given their temperaments that day, I was happy for the chore. Any amount of time from that stifling silence was good for me.

I wandered deep into the woods, looking for the thickest cords to burn. I thought perhaps a really good fire would warm our spirit and drive away some of the chill. I envisioned a bright blaze heating our faces as father strummed a lively melody while my mother sang into the evening. I must have wandered quite a ways because I didn’t hear the horn call until the second bellow and even then I didn’t recognize its meaning right away. It did make me worried and, with sticks in hand, I made quick my return.

I don’t know what I sensed first. It could have been the thick black plume of smoke. Or perhaps I heard the fire. I remember the smell, far too sweet for a normal wood fire but also too sickly for anything that could be recalled fondly.

I must have dropped my pile for I rushed to the road to find the wagon ablaze. The horse was slain, black arrows protruding from its side. I know I ran to the last vestiges of my life, ignoring the heat and the pain to try and search its burning wreck. It’s a wonder I didn’t burn myself or toss my body like a useless twig upon the pyre. Instinct must have kept me in check, even as tears blurred my vision and singed my cheeks.

I don’t know how long I toiled at the inferno, trying to wretch something free. I must have given up when the skies began to open, dropping the tears that were too heavy to leave my own eyes. I sought shelter beneath the trees, their scraggly branches barely protecting me as I watched the fire that was our wagon go out. I didn’t move from my spot for a long time, my mind refusing to process any thoughts.

Surely I passed out, for I awoke weary and numb in the crisp morning mist. Half rising, half stumbling, I made my way to the still smoking remains. In its back, I found all that I needed. At least they were together for the end, whatever it was. Everything was gone then. Everything I had ever loved.

It seemed pure chance that I stumbled across my father’s lute lying amongst the weeds. To this day, I can’t fathom how it had been spared the same fate as my parents. I like to imagine that Freyre’s hand had plucked the instrument from near destruction, leaving it just so for me to discover. I salvaged what I could but I had little more than the clothes on my back, my father’s instrument, the cloak and a few broken arrows pulled from the horse’s side.

Hungry, tired, sore and numb I stumbled down the road following the unknown path my family had started me on.

Derek is away attending debauched dens of iniquity in Toronto. And all I get to do is post more crappy Kinslayer Chronicle stories.

Travellers at a Country Inn by Isaac van Ostade (1645)

Chapter 5 – Interrupted

The Chronicler paused for a moment, raising a hand for Koudi to break. The innkeeper looked unimpressed with the interruption.

“Forgive me, good sir,” the Chronicler apologized, “but I must ask for a reprieve.”

He stretched out his aching fingers, resting his quill upon his ink pot as he surveyed over his scribbles. Koudi knocked upon the tabletop, and the Chronicler caught a sudden movement from the kitchen. He’d observed that Lafnis had grown quiet during the retelling and he wondered if she hadn’t come to lean against the opposite side of the wall, listening intently to her keeper’s story.

As the Chronicler examined his reproduction for errors, he couldn’t help but raise a few comments.

“These are quite the accomplishments,” he said. “I had no idea that you held such an auspicious beginning.”

“What would be more fitting a hero?” Koudi asked.

“What indeed,” the Chronicler said. “I wonder, could I impress upon you to replicate some of these feats? I would be most curious to hear your – how did you refer to it? – ‘Note of Masks?’”

The innkeeper narrowed his eyes.

“Do you doubt me, scribe?”

The Chronicler shook his head quickly.

“Of course not! I misrepresent my position. It’s just that, I have travelled many leagues. The inside of taverns and inns are familiar to me. Many a bard has shared the same roof or road and each one of them was possessed of some unique talent or song. But I have never heard of such remarkable skill. I feel a demonstration would help me to understand this astonishing talent.”

The innkeeper shifted in his chair slightly.

“I regret to say that I don’t have a lute to demonstrate.”

“Truly? You have no instrument of your own or one forgotten by a traveller?”

A silence fell between the two, punctuated mercifully by Lafnis’ appearance with two mugs of ale which she left on the table. The air had grown noticeably chillier than the night’s kiss and the Chronicler appreciated the distraction as they turned to their own drinks.

After a few gulps and wiping his chin with the back of his hand, the innkeeper looked gravely at the Chronicler.

“If, scribe, you had been patient enough for the story, you would come to understand why I carry not my own lute. Such an instrument, as I’ve said, is precious to its owner. A travelling performer would no more forget it behind as he would his head. Next, you’re going to request I conjure a Maen Nkowainn landship and demonstrate my learning upon her deck!”

“Forgive me,” the Chronicler said, his voice dropping in deference. “I have unintentionally cast doubt upon your tale. I only hoped to experience first hand the wonder of this Note of Masks which you capture so perfectly in word. It was not my place and I humbly request your forgiveness for my impropriety.”

The innkeeper eyed him for sign of duplicity but the Chronicler’s tone was far too honed.

“Do not think me a fool,” Koudi whispered. “I know of false platitudes. I have seen the slit tongued speech of the nobility. I have looked upon the dagger smiles of merchants as they sell their own people into servitude. People think they are far more clever than they truly are. It is in that flimsy bravado that they are their weakest, the illusion of their superiority too quickly dispelled.

“I will warn you but once. I am no simple farmer used to little more complexity than the muck they scratch in and the snort of the pigs sleeping in their own rooms.”

That uncomfortable silence returned, and the Chronicler sought solace in his ale. At last, he offered the only words he felt would do any good.

“I am sorry.”

The innkeeper took a long breath and for a moment the Chronicler wondered if he had lost him. Nothing was worse than losing the teller. Sometimes it was impossible to predict what would close them down. Some men were like rivers, once unstopped they just gushed their words unceasingly forth. But often it was the most innocuous words that would dam them up. It could be a simple comment from the recorder or even no response at all. Scribing these stories was more akin to navigating a dangerous stream. Just beneath the surface lurked rocks and ruin, most of which you wouldn’t spot until you were practically upon them.

Then there were the times when the speaker’s own words stirred something forgotten within the recesses of their mind. The bottle themselves and nothing will release the remainder of their story. Those were the most damning of all, since it was nigh impossible to know what one could have done to prevent the silence.

The Chronicler reached for his quill, holding it patiently but not pressingly for Koudi to resume. The innkeeper did not respond immediately, waiting just enough time to assert that his will dictated the conversation and not the Chronicler’s. At long last, he set down his mug and shifted forward in his seat.

“Very well, scribe. Let me make it clear why I am no simple laughing, singing troubadour waiting on the beck and call of some pompous noble or innkeeper. I will tell you exactly what can stifle the song in the throat of the Travellers.”