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Kinslayer Chronicle Part 8

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.”

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 7

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This is the homestretch on the NaNo novel. Only 10k words to go and a week to finish it off! I’m not super behind this year either! Only trick is keeping up the motivation. But at least I have Kinslayer Chronicle chapters to keep posting for the rest of you.

Bragi by Carl Wahlbom

Chapter 4 Part 2 – The Roots that Grew

When you are raised on the wagons and ships of a roving Maen Nkowainn band, privacy is a foreign concept you can scarcely afford. Rooms can not be spared to provide a recluse for a growing child. So, I bore witness to all life had to offer. I slept beneath the beakers and bottles of our resident tinker, watching him work deep into the night with whatever curious contraption had consumed his thoughts that day. While he worked, I would question him. What is in those beakers? Why do you wear such thick goggles? Why does that fire burn blue? How did you turn that liquid solid?

Each question led to another and he tolerated my presence, as if my enquiries helped focus his mind and keep him from wandering off in his own experiments. The more I learned, the more difficult my questions grew. Why is water blue? Why is a triangle the strongest form? Why does a curved lens make things bigger? Why does the sun and moon ride overhead? How do we extract pure minerals from the rocks mined from the ground?

What he knew, he shared. What he didn’t know, he postulated. What he couldn’t imagine, he confessed. The world stopped working through the mystical touch of the gods but began to be a series of interactions that could be proven through exacting method and precise tools. He demonstrated the fragility of the elements. He set metal on fire, creating the coloured flames we often employed for our more spectacular performances. He showed how he could make a metal disappear in little more than water, producing great light and heat the likes only ever seen by a wizard’s fingertips. Through the eyes of his tools I saw the distant planets revealed in the dark of the night sky or the mountains and valleys hidden upon the surface of a leaf. He showed me the unseen just like the Caenn, but instead of inferring these invisible existences, he brought them in full view with the glasses of his craft.

And I would fall asleep amongst his ingredients and herbs, my mind swimming with the information he shared in those late hours by shaking candlelight. My dreams were complex mathematical calculations and proofs of intricate natural theory. My young mind thirsted for these answers and when my questions grew too ambitious for the lessons, he would wave me away until I had proven his latest question.

“Why does a bird fly?” he would ask. And no matter what I requested, he would not share until I had formulated a theory to explain that phenomenon. Sometimes, I would sneak into his room, hiding amongst his things just to listen to him whispering to his self to gleam some grander piece that he was keeping from me. It was all a puzzle and the world was the picture I had to create through his pieces.

So quick was I with his studies, that he began to allow me to assist with his technical work during our performances. Few roles were available to us children, so when we rolled into town, ours was to help with unloading of props and costumes. We stayed behind the curtains waiting with wigs and bottles as the adults prepared for their next entrance. Our greatest performances would call on the tinker’s abilities, giving astounding powers to the wave of mighty Njordr’s hands as sparks or lightning shot about him. Explosions of fire and light were his speciality and sometimes we would have whole shows devoted to his colourful displays that would light the night sky. He trusted no one else with those performances. No other Maen understood the dangerous interaction of sulphur and saltpeter as well as the charcoal, copper, sodium, calcium and other powders which gave them their colour. I would run amongst the launching jars, inspecting the proper amount of powder and insuring their lines were secured.

Because I was so small, it was easier for me to work and see amongst the tangled knots of lines he held. Each had to be lit in the proper order or else his performance would be ruined. It was dangerous work, one mistake and the small square of field bearing our materials would become a crackling, sparkling inferno of pure heat and light. But we never had a mistake and even our troupe would watch in rapt admiration as our jars popped across the black grass, leaving sparkling trails as the sky lit with showers of flame and light.

Those were good performances, if only because they were so rare.

But my need to learn couldn’t be satiated by the tinker alone. The troupes of the Maen Nkowainn offered far more than any village. Beneath my father’s gaze I learned how to control my voice in ways that would seem magical to most. His soft fingers showed me strings and chords on the lute that would weave a spell over the hearts of those that listened. Song is just as powerful as the arcane to those that know how to use it. And my father was a master.

He taught me all the old tales, each pluck of the lute conjuring an almost unending narrative from his mind. The memory of a performer had to be impeccable. Nothing could sour an audience faster than a favourite line forgotten or a clever jest mistimed. But, much like everything else, there is a trick to the bard’s unfaltering recall.

The key was to break the tales down into acts, my father explained. Then, he simply paired an act with a chord. The music was his mentor, the notes whispering him his lines as he played. He taught me to listen to the notes and to turn their voice into my own. The lute became an extension of my speech and you could accompany the performance of one with the other. He even taught me how the lute could shore up your mistakes. With a timely sharp note you could mask a missed line with enough song that the audience wouldn’t even notice.

Those were the most interesting lessons. I sat before my family’s fire many nights, my father’s lute balanced carefully in my lap. I knew I had to be careful any time I borrowed it. A performer’s instrument is his closest confidante. But my father would leave it in my care on the nights he spent with my mother in their wagon and I would practice the innumerable songs and tales that he had left me to memorize. But the note of masks intrigued me the most. Learning tales was far too easy. I desired to learn more.

So I would play and play, trying to mimic his skill. I wanted to get the lute to speak for me, to have it say all the things I could not. It took many long sessions, my fingers blistering in the deep night, but I began to learn a most amazing technique. With the right cadence and melody, I could hide my own voice perfectly within the song. At first, I thought it was only my inexperienced ear getting lost in the melody, so I called for my Caenn to listen.

I played a raucous ballad of the Shattered Realms’ incestuous lineages all the while reciting the basic components of alchemy that the tinker had been teaching me that week. The Caenn laughed and clapped at my performance until I stopped halfway through to ask if he heard what I was saying. He looked at me strangely. The question confused him. He congratulated me on learning the ballad, noticing that my father had only started teaching me it this morning. But I shook my head, telling him I wasn’t singing its lyrics.

I explained to him what I was actually doing. He laughed unbelieving.

And so I played again.

Only this time, I would pause during certain chords and melodies, stilling the quivering voice of the strings with my fingers. However, I kept my recitation, never skipping a single word. At first he was uncomprehending. It wasn’t until I was in the third stanza that he his eyes lit and he stood, walking over and asking for the lute in soft reverence. I passed him my father’s instrument and he began to strum the chords, watching my lips closely. After a few lines, he began to play off tune.

And then he burst into a great roar of laughter.

“Wait till your father sees this!” he exclaimed. Without another word, he rushed to their wagon. A few minutes later and after a loud exchange within, my father emerged lute in hand, hair dishevelled and breeches held up with bare fingers.

But he didn’t look at me with anger or scorn. Instead, there was wonder in his eyes.

“Is it true?” he whispered. “What Caenn Aodh says? You can speak beneath the song?”

I knew my face flushed in the shadows of that firelight. My father had always been proud of me, but there was weight to his words then. His voice was filled with wonder and marvel that I had only ever heard once before. That tone was only conjured when he whispered of our people’s greatest hero: Iomhair.

I nodded meekly and he handed over his lute, not even aware that he held it brutishly by her neck as if she were little more than a plucked goose. I took the instrument. It felt heavier in that moment than it ever had before. I could feel my throat grow dry as I looked from my Caenn’s beaming face to my father’s expecting eyes.

My mother emerged just as I took a seat on the moist grass, she robed in the lanky shirt of my father. She looked like a spirit drifting through the mists as she drifted to the flames. All eyes were on me as I began to pluck the strings. For a moment I worried that it was all in my head and I was going to make an enormous fool of myself.

But as I began to speak, I could see my father nodding slowly along with the tune. It was my mother, though who noticed first. She cocked her head at the first couple of lines then turned to my father and Caenn expectantly. But the Caenn waved away her question before it was uttered, watching my father closely.

It wasn’t until my fingers stumbled on a note that he stopped singing gently and turned to the Caenn. I stopped playing but he insisted that I continue without changing a thing. I resumed the song and he stepped close, standing over me with his ear turned towards the instrument as his eyes wandered absently amongst the stars.

And then he too began to laugh.

Our Caenn joined in on the joke, their bawling stirring some of the other clansmen from their nightly business. My mother watched from the outside but she did not laugh. She only stared at me with haunted eyes.

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 6

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More Kinslayer Chronicle as the month of November marches inexorably towards its end.

The Ship by Salvador Dali (1943)

Chapter 4 Part 1 – The Roots that Grew

There are those that would slander the name of the Maen Nkowainn. Thieves and liars, they say, a people with nothing good to their ways but glib tongues trained only in loosing men of their coin and women of their virtues. Their bright head is a warning, their jewelled eyes a honeyed trap. Many take to the reputation, playing the part of vituperator and villain. But not all bands are so bent to scandal. Some turn their reputation to an advantage. For there is but one place that those of questionable fibre can find refuge.

And the troubadours and bards are celebrated the grander their reputation is no matter what that reputation carries. To be known is a power that carries more weight than coin. And the Maen Nkowainn are a prideful bunch. Many turn their minds to the oft celebrated soothsaying. People put stock in the elderly Maen sight and the old mothers needed only but a beaded scarf and some reflective surface to turn their sight to the aid of villagers and townsfolk desperate to know the success of their crops or secretive pining of fair maidens. And the best part is the predictions don’t have to be true – they just have to be true enough until the caravan has packed and sailed elsewhere.

It was on these creaking ships I was born. It was among my people’s songs that I had been raised. The Maen Nkowainn caravans are tight communities. We care for each other because no one else will. We represented the standard caravan: part opportunistic merchants, part wandering criers, part entertainers and storytellers and part rabble-rousers. My father was the leader of our bardic troupe, and the greatest actor amongst his kind. His performances were legendary. So stirring was his rendition of the Death of Bauldr that it was said to warm the heart of Queen Elizador enough for a single tear to freeze upon her cheek. So lascivious was he, that courtiers kept their daughters and wives from the King’s hall when he came to visit. They say he could charm the ring right off a lady’s finger.

But many times the Maen Nkowainn mystique does much of the work. People see the hair and the eyes and they are apt to believe everything else. However, my mother was not one of our people. So few take to the caravans, for while brief courtships can leave treasured stories in their passing, few people would wish to adopt the lifestyle. For every maiden and sir that fell for the comforting embrace of a Traveller, there were double as many who wouldn’t so much as toss a rope to save one floundering in a river. But my mother was no ordinary woman.

She never spoke of her past. Not to me, at least. My father only said that they met under circumstances so fortunate that they had to be arranged by Gefjun’s own gilded touch. He said that it was a daring rescue that brought her into the folds of the troupe. And while my young mind conjured many a fanciful tale for an explanation, despite my best protests and pleas they would divulge no further information.

And while the lips of the Maen love nothing more than the kiss of a good tale, my troupe seemed particularly reticent in releasing this one from their sealed throats. I did gather pieces here and there. For even Maen children are wily. I knew she had been of noble birth. I also knew that she had made a decision and that had barred them from ever returning to her home or her family. But this seemed not a source of bitterness. The caravan admired her for this action and by her own admission she saw herself as having no other family than those that shared their ships with her.

Many a day I wondered if her heritage made me some fanciful noble. I made the mistake of voicing these thoughts to our fol. Bradain laughed for days and took to calling me his ‘Little Majesty.’ And while he teased and japed about it, producing many chuckles from the rest of the troupe, I knew I never received an answer from him. Nor anyone else for that matter. And with the Maen, there is as much to learn from that which isn’t spoken as there is with what is.

But if I were to learn more, it wouldn’t be from my parents. They were happy with their lives and had no intention of settling in some stuffy court. For them, their kingdom was the Crossroads. The inns and taverns were their fiefdoms and the children gathered before the fairs their subjects. But we didn’t just entertain small towns. Our name was held with much esteem and there were lords who delighted in us gracing their halls. And while their patronage was good, I knew where the love of my family lay.

For them, there was no greater joy than the small towns. The people who crowded muddy hillsides during the worst rains just to catch a glimpse of the colourful jugglers with their bells or the soothers hidden behind their shining curtains. There was such glee in their faces, a marvel and astonishment over the simplest slights and the basest pyrotechnic. Nobles often took to trying to puzzle a trick on stage or dictating the staging of a play in a show of their own intellect or power. But the villagers rarely made such demand. And there were times when my mother and father would roll out the carts for performances with only some bushels of oats or baskets of roots as pay.

I thought those performances were beneath them. They had the skill to be court performers. More than once a lord had asked for singular patronage but each time they refused. Even though my father had the best songs and my mother wrote the best lyrics. They would take the days of meagre porridge and bitter mead as we scrounged for a place to perform if just to hear those nights of pure adoration from the crowd. To see a tavern full of rugged sailors standing to their feet in applause with tears staining their cheeks.

All in all, it was a pleasant childhood. It was certainly better than some remote farmstead. I grew up in a fair. And while at the time I thought it humdrum, I now look back on those days as some of my fondest. So much is wasted on the ignorance of youth. Only now can I sympathize with my mother and a life on those rocking ships whose wheels had a tendency to fall off no matter the state of the road. At the time, all I could think of were Kings and Queens with silly fantasies of golden crowns and mighty feasts. But what child doesn’t fantasize about being a prince? My only quirk was never imagining being a bard.

But though I may have harboured dreams of something greater, I never loathed the life I had. How could I? Every day was filled with juggling and merry-making. There was much to learn on those creaking ships as we sailed from town to town. There was, of course, the obvious lessons on how to handle a Maen craft. People sneer at our ships, laughing that we must sail upon the land because we can nary afford the horses to pull our wagons. If only they knew half the truth. Our landships are a source of pride. Each morning, we raise the bright sails in quiet reverence for the lands that were lost. A common Maen tale goes that the fabric which pulls our ships is made from the sinew and marrow of our ancestors. That’s why the lead vessel is always red. The bodies of our parents pull us along the roads we must travel, guiding us down the paths that will one day bring us home once again.

And harnessing the winds of the land require all the help we can get. Unlike the oceans, we have to contend with hills and mountains. Of course, we have horses to pull us when the wind is weak or the weather uncooperative. But when it is right and the path laid bare, there is no feeling in all the realms than being at the helm of one of those vessels. The sails envelope the skies and you glide as if you were all but soaring through the clouds like a great bird. The wind washes over the decks in refreshing gusts, and you man the pulleys and ropes, working as one of the troupe in staying the course.

Those ships are much like performing a play. Every member has a part and we each rely implicitly on the other to do their role. There is no question of skill or competency. If the Ceann Fine says you are to tend the aft rutter, none will raise any doubt. Even if you are not but a child. For any member would gladly demonstrate his skills if asked. And I was an incurably curious child. They say the moment I could walk, I was waddling to the main throws and watching the twist of the ropes over one another as if the Maen were braiding a giant’s mane. Every time we lifted the sails, I was there and as I grew older and I older my questions became unending.

Our Ceann Fine was the first to let me practice. I remember standing upon the deck, watching as his hands gripped the main levers that controlled the primary sail. He seemed to focus more on the cloth than the road ahead, the wind blowing through his long hair as if it was a brilliant red banner stretching from his scalp. He saw me, smiled and motioned towards the controls. Hesitantly, I approached. By his direction, I attempted to make the slight adjustments.

“Watch the wind,” he said. “For a moment’s notice can turn the sail and steer us off course.”

I nodded, though I didn’t know exactly what he meant. But I looked over the rails, intent on seeing that which had no form. He laughed, resting a hand on my shoulder and pointing with his weathered finger.

“The important thing about directing is looking for signs which no one else sees.”

He was pointing me to the trees and I immediately gathered his intention.

“The leaves, they bend with the wind.”

He laughed.

“Precisely, my boy. We need not wait for our sails to catch when the land is more than willing to warn us of its own accord.”

He showed my the levers, indicating where and what they controlled. By easing the tension in some cords you could produce more or less slack in the lines. This, in turn, adjusted the sail’s resistance to the sky’s breath. Through this careful interplay could the fickle wind be captured for our great ship.

“It takes many years to understand the language of the heavens,” the Caenn Fine said. “I remember my dad sitting me upon the deck, spending hours discussing the stars, clouds and birds. When navigating the invisible currents, you must learn to read every little clue you’re given. Your crew, nay, your people are relying upon your judgement. Just like I trust in my throwers to catch their lines if things come loose, so too do they trust in me to chart them the smoothest, safest course.”

I nodded, though I didn’t truly understand. But there was a determined look in my eye which my Caenn Fine saw and he laughed as he lifted my hands to the smoothed wood.

“Why not give it a try?”

“Are you sure?” I asked. My voice soft and weak like the child I was.

He nodded.

“Do not fear. I shall be at your side the entire time. Nothing will go wrong.”

I leaned on my toes, my fingers wrapping furtively about the levers. The Caenn kicked over a box, lifting me gently on its hard surface so I could comfortably hold the mechanisms and see out over the rail. I took a slow breath, the weight of my position heavy on my shoulders now that it was my hands holding the straining ropes.

“Don’t forget, watch the trees.”

“Right!”

I turned, my young eyes intently upon the tree line. The branches swayed slowly in a soft, rhythmic beat. With each bow, I could feel the accompanying touch of the wind brush against my cheek. By timing their sways with the soft beat of my heart, I was able to synchronize my breathing with the wind. Each exhale was as if it was my own lungs pushing upon the sails. I blew gently through pursed lips and watched as the sail above bulged in the centre and pulled our craft forward.

I turned to the levers. Having never been this close to them, I didn’t know exactly what they controlled. I gently released the clinch on the rope closest to my right. Almost immediately, the Caenn was at my side, pulling a few of the others and readjusting the lengths of the ropes to compensate for the slack I’d caused. I looked to him, worried I’d made some mistake. But he just kept his grin.

“You can’t just change one rope without realizing the effect it’ll have on the others,” he explained. “Everything is tied together. Pressure on one ripples through the whole.”

He manoeuvred a few more and I watched closely the ropes that readjusted to his actions. With one pull, a winch rattled and a line rolled above me. Looking behind, I could see the thrower reacting at the change as if he were no more than a cog in the whole device. Each worker kept careful attention on his own portion of the ship and took action at the first change to his charge.

I traced the remaining lines back to their source then took the levers in hand.

With a pull, I could feel the ship shake as the rigging above shifted and men sprang into action. A push in the other direction caused others on the opposite side of the deck to grab their lines. The Caenn was at my side quickly again, but as I worked the levers quickly, he stayed his hand from interfering.

The ship rocked and groaned, shifting from side to side upon the road. But my breathing was strong and though the first few steps were rocky, my ears seemed in tune with the lilting of the deck, the grunting of its workers and the creaking of the masts. The Caenn had been right, there was so much to see and hear to guide you that you didn’t need to see the wind itself. You saw it everywhere else.

And our landship swerved, taking a hard turn off the road and rolling quickly upon the hills. There were a few shouts of surprise but as promised, the men manned their posts. Each shift in the ropes sent the lines spinning quickly through their metal holds. The ship rocked and bounced, cresting the top of a hill and sending a small flock of grazing birds into the sky. We landed with a slight jolt but the wind held true.

Another breath and we sailed down the side of the hill, our hair wiping wildly about our faces. The heaven’s embrace was cold and crisp as we rushed over her land. I closed my eyes briefly and we sailed so soft and true that it felt like we had been borne upon blessed wings to take residence among the clouds.

The ship veered its course, heading for the sharpest hill. I expected the Caenn to step forward and take the controls from my hands. But his grin simply broadened as he pressed his hat securely upon his head. The hill rose above us, and for a moment it felt like we were drawing up against an unscalable mountain. Its shadow fell dark and cold. As we reached its roots, I could feel the ship begin to slow and the wheels grow heavy beneath their load. For a moment, I worried that perhaps I was about to lead us into capsizing.

But the Caenn had said that to steer was to trust. So I put my trust in his words, his crew, his ship and my people.

I took firm hold of the levers and I made my adjustments.

With a long, slow exhale, the wind built as we began to angle against our adversary. The sail grew taut and the ropes creaked beneath the strain. The fabric stretched against its rigging. The deck shook and groaned beneath the strain. But we rose and I watched as the prow raised, pointing heavenward as we all looked to the sky. The shadow of the hill retreated and our momentum slowed until that one moment when we balanced seemingly unmoving upon its tip.

For a moment, the land spread out before us and it felt as if we had been plucked from the earth to look down on this worldly domain from Freyre’s great throne. It lasted but a moment though that expanse seared into each of our memories. Then, there came the soft shift in my gut. It felt like my stomach was racing to my throat.

The prow of the landship angled down and I could hear the wheels begin to spin wildly beneath us. The wind rushed up as if mighty Freyre was trying to keep us in his lap. The Caenn laughed wildly and I couldn’t help but smile as the ship flew at such speed down the other side. Instinctively, my hands worked the levers and the sails adjusted and loosened letting the full descent fly us forwards. Such momentum we built, such speed we carried that I felt like I’d left all my thoughts and worries on that hilltop. They still rested in Freyre’s hands, looking out over the world while my body ran blissfully free.

We struck the bottom of the hill and the entire crew bobbed like a cork line cast into a river. The ship lilted on its side, the port end taking far more of the impact than the aft. I felt the deck angle and my mind quickly calculated the needed adjustments to bring us around. We tossed roughly from side to side but the sail snapped into form again and we pulled upon the road, joining the back of the caravan.

The Caenn then slipped his big, warm hands over me, gently prying my fingers from the levers. He smiled and directed me aside. I was still grinning and feeling my heart beat heavy in my chest. Never had I felt more alive.

It was in that moment that I heard the cheering. I turned, seeing the rest of the crew – my family – whooping and hollering upon the deck. Their fists raised triumphantly in the air and the same silly grin was mirrored on each their faces.

The Caenn brought us into a gentle roll in line with the other ships and looked at me.

“Never have I seen such grand sailing,” he said. “Not since the first of us had taken to the sail and great Illeare started us on the grand Wander. You’ve got a real talent, Koudi. You’re a natural Caenn.”

My mother and father came to me that night as we sat around the campfire. They had ridden their own ship that day and they laughed at my performance. My father was full of exaggeration and boasted about how well his son had first manned the helm. My mother started with practised concern and admonishment for the Caenn’s recklessness in permitting me to drive the jagged moors, but my father’s enthusiasm was far too infectious. By the end of the night, she had already started composing a few lines for a song she later titled Cygnet’s First Flight. My father presented it at the Fyrste’s court to standing applause.

But this was the story of my life.

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 5

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I’m on the third week of my NaNo novel and still ahead of the expected curve! Take that, Derek! And Kait! Also, something something Kinslayer Chronicle. Are you happy yet, SEO?

Innkeeper by Anarchy. See more at the artist’s gallery: http://anarchy.cghub.com/

Chapter 3 Part 2 – The Hero with no Name

The Chronicler turned at the nod of her head to hear the sounds of heavy boots upon the floor. Stepping into the interior of the inn was a large man who paused for a moment, a great sack balanced upon his shoulder. He regarded the visitor and turned to the empty door.

“This him?” he called in a thick, southern voice. But when no answer came back, he simply set his parcel down with a heavy thud and stepped forward, large hand held out. “You must be our honoured guest!”

The Chronicler approached, taking the pro-offered hand. He looked the man up and down.

It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. Of course, the man had a wild shock of bright red hair, brighter than he’d ever seen before. His eyes seemed to shine like green emeralds in a chiseled face that smiled as if he were half hearing a joke only he knew. And though he was wide, it seemed he had started into his own stores of ale as the lip of his stomach began to spill over the hem of his pants. He wasn’t quite as tall as what the Chronicler expected either, but then stories and legends had a tendency for exaggeration.

“You must be the master of this establishment?”

“That I am!” he boomed, releasing the Chronicler’s hand from his crushing grip and wrapping his arm tightly about his shoulders while he pulled him in close. “And the Stone Swan is my most magnificent work yet! Would you not agree?”

He waved his hand over the dark upon dark interior, pausing only briefly at his glimmering collection of bottles as if they were meant to impress the most.

“It is like no inn I’ve ever entered before.”

“Or will again!” the keeper cried, bending over and scooping up his parcel. “And I’m so glad to hear that you’ve already paid through the next two nights as well. Always enjoy a good bit of business, especially in these trying times.”

“Two nights?” the Chronicler shook his head. “I really don’t think it will take that long. My business may not even be concluded.”

“And what business is that?” the keeper asked, carrying his load towards the back room.

“I am seeking the Kinslayer. For Scarlet Heather.”

The innkeeper paused. Slowly, he lowered his parcel before the doorway.

“For your nightly wanderings!” he called, rapping on the door. He turned back to the Chronicler, running a thick hand through his glowing hair. “What a curious quest. And why would you find the hero here?”

Lafnis appeared, untying the top of the parcel and looking inside as the keeper scratched at the makings of a rather haggard beard while awaiting his answer.

“There have been words and whispers – rumours carried on the wind – of an inn in far flung Janogradt. They say there is a man of foreign origins and flaming red hair who appeared from far off to live in quiet solitude. They even say he can sing a decent song or spin a hardy tale when the mood takes him too.”

“That hardly describes a great hero. It could be anyone,” the keeper said, his voice straining at some semblance of modesty. The Chronicler could see Lafnis rolling her eyes as she began to fetch the supplies stored with.

“Scarlet Heather is a curious name for a man,” she said, dragging the sack from view.

“I’ve heard it’s for the rugged land that he represents,” the Chronicler said. “For only someone as fearsome as the Kinslayer could herald from a world so barren and harsh that only the stubbornest of flowers can take root.”

“He would have to be well versed in weaponry,” the innkeeper mused, easing into one of his benches and gazing at the walls with their assorted armoury. “Quite a man to have accomplished so much in such little time. I hear he’s still of young stock. Barely shy of thirty seasons or so.”

The Chronicler regarded the innkeeper’s face. And while it was hard to say between the jagged scruff striking through his jowls and the mop of hair falling over his eyes, he would have placed him a few more years past thirty.

“As I explained to your assistant, I mean no harm,” the Chronicler said, sitting across from him. “My sole motivation is in preservation. I don’t think anyone is served by the outlandish tales spun in his name. There are lessons to be learned in his actions. Heroism and hardship so commonly go hand in hand. But what we get now is some idealized fantasy of either extreme. The Kinslayer is either betrayer or liberator, depending on who you asked. Surely, the truth must lie between.”

“And what do you get from it?”

“It would be a lie if I were to say there were no profits,” the Chronicler confessed. “My interests aren’t solely academic. Not only are the chronicles best served by accuracy, but there is a call for stories better moderated by an earthly sense of scepticism and restraint. Though its unlikely to win the hearts at festivals or tavern hearths, there are some far flung courts of the eastern dynasties who value wisdom over entertainment. ‘Ink of the scholar is holier than blood of the martyr,’ or so they say.”

“So you wish to sell this story.”

The Chronicler shook his head.

“I have no meaning to appear as a brigand of thought. Knowledge is no mere commodity to be traded and bartered. It is a precious resource that should be preserved and shared for all who would desire to learn. So much is often lost to petty squabbles between nations and individuals. Secrets aren’t served by being buried along with their masters. We Chroniclers have no intention to live in marbled halls surrounded by our lore and barring our gates from those wishing to enter. Let the wizards keep to their tomes and towers. We ask only for enough recompense to continue our search and nothing more.”

The innkeeper stroked his beard in thought. The Chronicler felt this was his chance to press home his advantage. He turned to his satchel, flipping the copper latches and removing a stack of thick sheaves which he handed to the red haired warrior.

“These are the latest accounts I have documented. You can peruse them yourself to see that there is no duplication or modification. We seek to pen that which is true whether it is entertaining or not.”

The big man took the papers reluctantly. He looked over them, flipping each one slowly. After a few cursory glances, he deposited them upon the table once more. He clasped his fingers together, leaning forward and fixing the Chronicler with a fierce look.

“And what is in it for me?”

The Chronicler gathered his papers, organized them and returned them to his satchel.

“I have little to offer, I’m afraid. My order carries little coin but it is my hope to clear some of the slander surrounding your name. We need not remember the people of our past as villains but simply as the men they were.”

The innkeeper raised a hand to his chin once more. It was then the Chronicler noticed the great scar running along the palm – the kind of mark found on a true warrior. The innkeeper weighed the offer. He turned, regarding the worn blades on the walls. What he saw in their dulled surfaces, the Chronicler could barely know. Perhaps it was the faces and names of the countless bodies they’d bitten, their spirits contained in the faded gleam of the steel in the sunlight. He turned to the backroom, an undecipherable look etching across his face.

Finally, a slow nod took hold of him.

The Chronicler smiled.

“I’m so glad you see the value in this.”

“There is but one thing,” the innkeeper said, tapping his finger hard against the table. “You must record what I say exactly as I say it. I’ll tolerate no changes or alternations to my tale. It must be preserved as I see fit.”

“Of course.”

“Also, you should prepare yourself for three full days. My story will take no less.”

“Three days?” the Chronicler gasped. “Are you certain?”

“You expect less of the Kinslayer?”

The Chronicler shook his head.

“I meant no offence. It’s just… I recorded the tale of the Duke of Cosa del Vicolia and I was only there for an evening.”

“This is a long tale.”

“He was sixty-seven!”

“Very well,” the innkeeper said, getting to his feet, “if you don’t wish this tale then our business is concluded.”

“No! No,” the Chronicler said quickly, “if three days I must then three days you will have.”

“Good,” the innkeeper smiled. “I hope you write fast, scribe, for I won’t wait for you either.”

It was the Chronicler’s turn to smile.

“Do not worry about your flow of thoughts, sir. I can pen as fast as a word be spoken.”

“Impossible!”

“It’s true.”

“And maintain accuracy?”

The Chronicler opened his satchel once more. This time, he fetched a clean sheet, dry quill and an ink pot. He unstopped the container, dipping the sharp end of the long feather into its contents and looking expectantly at the large man.

“Proceed.”

The innkeeper eyed him for some means of trickery. But as the tip of his quill waited, gently touching the skin of the page and pooling a long dark dot on its surface, he realized that the Chronicler was not jesting.

“For this is the day of our great lords,” the innkeeper began hurriedly, barely stopping for breath. “Breached upon their golden shields came their spears as they threw themselves into the midst of their enemies. The heavens shook with their mighty battle. Glad was he that his bracers were strong and polished, wrapped tightly about his wrists. The sand bit his eyes as he regarded his adversary on the other end of the pit, the cheer of the crowd giving him strength as he spits. ‘For the Emperor!’ Ques wrings the hands of Josep. ‘For the glory of battle!’ He frustruk boasts the evening stall with his mate. Lamed, white knotted, lips a landed hand.”

The innkeeper went silent and the Chronicler’s quill came to a scratching stop. Leaning over, the keeper regarded the page before the robed man. The Chronicler turned it, smiling proudly at the product he’d produced.

“By the frozen halls, what is that nonsense?”

Scribbled across the surface was a bizarre series of weaves, cords, lines and symbols. It was no language that the innkeeper had ever seen, though the components seemed simple yet distinct from one another. It was almost beautiful the way each one seemed to flow into the next needing no separation save for the spaces the writer imposed himself.

“A cipher,” the Chronicler said. “We of the order have developed our own method to transcribe that is not slowed by the language conventions of the speaker.”

“A code, eh?” the innkeeper asked, pulling the paper closer to him. His eyes narrowed as his brow furrowed. He looked up briefly.

“This is accurate? Read it back to me.”

The Chronicler turned the page, dictating the short test to the innkeeper. As he drew to the end, the red haired man snatched the paper back and peered over it.

“That’s… remark…” he shook his head before the compliment could formally take shape. “It must be based on sounds for you to record the gibberish. Each of these symbols represents a different portion of a word?”

“More or less,” the Chronicler confirmed. “It’s a little complex, though. It takes some years to learn the script.”

“Consonants must form the longer scrawl, and vowels the shorter?”

“Well, not precise-”

“And spaces indicate individual words, no?”

“Actually, they separate diff-”

The innkeeper began scrawling on the bottom of the page. His mouth scrunched up in concentration, his eyes scanning the section the Chronicler had penned in constant reference. His hand moved with a self-assurance that drew each stroke as straight and deep as if he had penned this a thousand times. The quill scratched noisily trying to keep up with his fevered fingers as they worked to keep pace with his frantic mind. At long last, he leaned back with a puff of breath, turning the sheet over to the Chronicler.

“Correct?”

What followed beneath the Chronicler’s passage was a childish and awkward scrawl of indecipherable scratches and swirls that ended in a short, simplistic smiling face which he could only assume was the innkeeper’s attempt at coy humour. But as he looked up to his slightly puffed face, he had such an expression of pride and self-satisfaction tinged with the slightest hint of an earnestness for approval that the Chronicler realized it wasn’t him being glib.

So it was an awkward, slow smile and nod that the Chronicler returned.

“Absolutely remarkable.”

The innkeeper beamed rather pleased with himself. The Chronicler was subtle as he blotted out the distracting nonsense.

The innkeeper looked about his inn. His eyes travelled slowly over each weapon and each trophy. He lingered on his bottle collection and the dark hearth with its even darker stone. At long last it seemed to settle on the Chronicler looking at him patiently. He leaned forward, knitting his fingers together upon the table.

“Prepare yourself, scribe, for this tale is a long one. It is a story as grand as it is tragic. It is the kind of story that can not be told at firesides. Even the bards during their great competitions would balk at the task laid before them should they try their hand in its telling.”

He paused, and the Chronicler realized he was waiting for him to prepare. The Chronicler hadn’t expected that to be his start, but slightly flustered, he dipped is quill into the ink pot and waited for his master to resume.

“In some ways you could say it began with a song. It was a melody that vibrated to the pulse of the gods themselves, echoing through the stones and trees around us.”

The innkeeper shook his head.

“No, that’s a bit heavy handed. It began at the King’s court. Intrigue is always rampant at the seat of the liege and each whisper or gossip could spell the beginning or end of another. We look to their decorated halls for enlightenment and leadership but it is petty schemes and self-serving hearts that truly reside within.”

He smacked his lips as his mane twisted from side to side.

“No, I’m getting ahead of myself. I suppose it really began when Freyre and Freyja walked the desolate sands and mistress Freyja dipped her toe into the ocean, creating the first of life that swam the seas. And Freyre did draw the first of the trees, plucking them from the shallows to dry on the earth so as to fashion his cup with which to fish the people…”

The innkeeper stopped, sighing and thrumming his fingers against the wood as he cast about for the proper beginning. His agitation read easily in his rigid posture and, despite the prior warning, the Chronicler lifted his quill and gave him a comforting look.

“Perhaps it would be easier to start with a name.”

The innkeeper looked at him strangely.

“Yours, maybe?”

“My name?” the innkeeper blinked then laughed at the sudden realization. “There are many names I’ve carried. It is hard not to gather them for those of us who walk the trails. The people of this village know me as Koudi but that is not my true name. Names, you see, tell you much of an individual. Those given by others tell you even more. To carry many names is to touch many lives and each will speak differently of the owner.

“The Memnons know me as the Scarlet Heather – a fantastic name given to their tendency for artistic flair. It bares similarities to many of the wicked that have bested their Empire, reducing their sprawling claims to little more than a fraction of what they once held. The Scarlet is in reference both to my great hair, which would be obvious if you’ve ever seen me, and to the amount of blood that I’ve extracted from their people. Heather is in reverence to the harsh foreign plant, a symbol within their culture of unbreakable barbarism.

“My first real teachers called me Mal-Karr for I took to the blade like a woman to kneading. The sword seemed to spring to life in my fingers and those wizened battle masters knew that they were training greatness though it was impossible for them to know whether the sword would be used for liberation or bloodshed.

“My first love called me Baecan in remembrance of her home and all that had been lost. And of course, I am known as the Kinslayer for the most heinous of crimes that man can commit against his own. For there is no greater betrayal than that raised against our own flesh and blood. Such action is what tore the might Aenir and Vanir apart, sparking an unending conflict in heaven that will inevitably end with the destruction of the world.

“But I was not always so. Know that I am descended from the Maen Nkowainn – those displaced people who wander in their caravans across the realms. At sight of their bright sails are gates and doors barred, least they bring more than an impoverish people in their rolling landships upon the gentle folk within. It is said that my people are cursed. That it is winds of deceit and trouble that drives them along the dusty trails. It is this reputation that makes even the most kindly hearts wary when their wagons roll through…”

And at long last, it seemed that the innkeeper had finally found his voice.

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 4

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I’m halfway through my NaNo novel. I’m even somehow ahead of schedule this time. Which is weird. I’ve never been ahead of schedule. What is this bizarre feeling?

Skyrim concept art belonging to Bethesda.

Chapter 3 Part 1 – The Hero with no Name

The Chronicler awoke to find a thin shaft of light working its way through the thick storm shutters. Dust drifted in small flakes beneath its heavenly shine, like tiny faeries dancing in their own little domain. He shifted upon the bed, the wood creaking beneath him.

It hadn’t been the most comfortable sleep he’d ever had. The storm outside raged long into the night. The shutters clattered and banged against their restraints. Things scratched and struck at them in the darkness. Alone in the small room, it was easy for the imagination to wander and for fearsome conjurations to take form on the other side of those thin walls. He couldn’t shake the dangerous weapon his escort had worn or the peculiar sounds he’d heard in those last minutes along the road. The need for such a device and the stories of this land created terrifying thoughts that kept him watchful long into the night

It didn’t help that he could have sworn he’d heard the lock click as he was helped into his room.

He slipped his sore feet from beneath the scratchy wool blankets. He tried to stretch the muscles, raising the toes into the light and wincing at the purple discolouration painted across his flesh. His ankle in particular seemed quite dark and tender. He dropped them upon the matted fur of some creature’s hide stretched across the floor. He sucked in breath as he raised himself erect. His feet protested. Now that they had some decent rest, they were prepared to decry every single step of his long journey north.

Limping, he gathered his clothes haphazardly strewn over the small table. Once he’d slipped into his breeches, he moved to the window. At first he examined his hand in the light. It still throbbed from the operation the night prior, but the swelling had gone down and it was mostly a bright pink with faint scratching. He tested it against the window, lifting the pane and struggling to push open the shutters.

Talarheim opened to him as the thick wood clattered against the inn’s side. The brisk morning wind sent shivers down his naked torso and he scurried back to fetch his stained shirt. He returned to the window, slightly more protected and more eager for a peaceful start to his day. He leaned against the sill, looking out over the village beneath.

The Crossroads wove straight through the settlement and most of the important buildings were arranged along its side. From his vantage spot, the Chronicler could see the smithy directly across from him. The bellows were already stoking, a thick cloud of smoke raising and twisting into the sky above. Within its stone enclosure came the ringing of a hammer pounding against its anvil. A fire crackled and water hissed and steamed as the smith and his apprentices worked.

Down the street walked women with baskets heading towards the small cluster of resting wagons with their horses tied nearby. The village market was an open air gathering of makeshift stalls erected about some worn and tumbled ancient stones. It formed a natural circle and appeared as if the great road had punched a hole in its old outer rings, knocking aside any of the old standing stones that stood in its way. The Chronicler wondered if it was one of the ancient way-rings primitive tribes erected in ages long past. Few knew their original purpose. Some speculated they were sites of religious importance. Other scholars argued that they were portals connecting this world with another. Even more claimed they were part of a large nexus of arcane power stretched across the world, gathering interest of the wizards who dutifully studied any they came across.

Talarheim’s served simply as cheap posts or tables for enterprising merchants and farmers who stretched their foods and tools across the weathered rock or fastened large cloth tarps to protect from the wind and sun as they hawked their wares.

A few of the more permanent stalls hung dark and empty and many areas were completely bare with only the weeds rising to claim them. It was easy to imagine at one time the bustling business that happened within those moss covered rings. Few traders came this way now. There was just not enough business to be had. And there were only so many stalls that could sell the same scraggly ferns, clumps of moss and dark mushrooms.

Then there was the smell of the tannery. It was easily identified with the numerous wood racks outside keeping stretched the hides of whatever beasts the locals caught in the scrub land or woods. The scent of the liming drifted from the open door. This mixed with the stench of decay from the pieces removed and tossed in a pile near the exit. Likely, those were the remains of the morning’s work and would be disposed before the shop was closed.

But the most tantalizing sensation was the smell of fresh bread wafting in the air. It brought a grumble to the Chronicler’s stomach as he had little than the rations from the last village for many nights. And at this time, he couldn’t even remember when he’d passed through it.

He closed his window, finding his cowl and gathering up his satchel. He poked at the little holes left from the leaves that had found their way through. It was no surprise that the thick cloth of his escort’s cloak or adorning the front entrance of many buildings was a local craft. He couldn’t tell what it was made from as most were treated and dyed. But it was clear they were strong and thick to protect from the whirlwind of leaves that kicked up with the heavy winds. Possibly they were woven with the hairs of some local beast.

The Chronicler made a mental note to enquire about it later.

The stairs groaned as he descended. The main hall was empty though the candles from last night had already been replaced with fresh ones. Their wicks stuck straight in preparation for the evening. The fireplace had been shovelled and cleaned with fresh logs propped in a small mound inside. The windows were pushed open and the door sat wide letting a cool cross current to blow through.

There were no signs of the owner though he could hear sounds coming from the kitchen. Unsure what he should do, the Chronicler simply laid his satchel on a table and took a seat. He listened to the din beyond, wondering if a meal was being prepared. His stomach seemed to grow more ravenous over the thought of some cooked eggs, cheese and finely spiced porridge. But he realized that options were probably limited here and feared some sort of green, mushy monstrosity.

Eventually, his escort emerged with her face red and cheeks puffed as she breathed heavily. A kerchief had been tied about her head, keeping her long hair back from her face. She paused, seeing the Chronicler sitting patiently at the table. Her face then turned into a short frown.

“Should have said something!” she called, depositing a pile of dishes beneath the front counter. “Don’t know to feed you if I don’t even know whether you’re up or not.”

“That’s fine,” the Chronicler bristled. “I was just wondering if it was the master back there or not.”

“It’s not fine,” she sighed grabbing a mug and heading into the kitchen. A few more dishes and pans clattered before she emerged with a plate of cheese and rolls along with a full cup. She dropped them before him. “The fish’ll be done in a few.”

“This will do,” the Chronicler said, lifting the mug to his nose to test its contents. “I’m not even sure I can afford this.”

“Yes, what with your robberies and all,” she said. “Don’t worry, your room and board has been covered. We’ll just see if we can’t straighten out the wreck you’ve become or not. The fish’ll be done in a few.”

She didn’t even wait for a thank you before returning to the kitchen.

The Chronicler turned to his meal. The ale was passable but he was especially wary of the rolls. Though small and crisp, they were tinged a curious green-yellow and flecked with something darker. He picked one up, breaking it gently open. A soft steam rose from the fluffy interior though the scent was slightly woody despite the heavy presence of herbs. Slowly, he took one bite. Followed by another and then another. In no time his plate had been cleaned and he regarded the last piece when she emerged from the kitchen with a fish steaming in her hand.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Local speciality,” she said. “Close kept secret. We’d have to kill you or hire you if I were to tell.”

“Truly?”

She dropped the fish briskly before him.

“Most travellers are best served not knowing. I’ve seen too many patrons turn up their nose after learning its secret.”

“So it’s made from those ferns?”

“Sutislauf,” she said. “Boil the sin from it, let it cool and you get a mush that you can bake. Add a few herbs and whatnot and you’ve got yourself some bread. Though considering how difficult it is to get, we aren’t apt to make whole loafs.”

“And what is sutislauf?”

“Leaves we gather from the corpses of animals in the forest,” she said simply before turning and walking away. “Or foolish travellers.”

And much like she predicted, the Chronicler had less interest in eating the remainder. The fish, however, seemed less likely to contain his own blood and he gladly finished that off with a silent promise to himself not to ask about anymore of the food.

Once done, he collected his plate and utensils, walking them to the kitchen. But she emerged before he could enter, looking at him questioningly. He held out his things.

“So, about the keeper?”

“He went out to get supplies,” she said, taking the plates.

But as she turned to head into the back room, he called out, “I don’t think I ever got a name.”

“You can ask when he gets back.”

“I mean yours,” the Chronicler said. He heard the plates clatter in the familiar manner before she appeared in the door once more.

“You can call me the help.”

“That’s not a name.”

“Neither is the Chronicler.”

“Please.”

“Why? So you can pen it in the margins of your great heroes? I won’t be your footnote, scribe.”

He could feel the past night’s frustration returning but he took a slow, deep breath. The northerners were known for their stubbornness and he knew he should have been more prepared. He let out his breath slowly, unclenching his fists.

“I just wanted to thank you. I realize that I would have been in ragged shape had you not found me last night and brought me here with nary a question or demand for recompense.”

And this bit of bold faced honesty seemed to catch her off-guard. She looked at the floor before turning back to him. And when she did, some of the prior agitation seemed to have washed from her face.

“Lafnis,” she said.

“Like the Aenir?”

“The gods touch our lives in many ways,” she replied. “But to head off any of the standard jests, no I haven’t seen the altar.”

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you my Lady,” the Chronicler said with a bow. “As for myself, I am Nikola Tasservert.”

She looked slightly shocked.

“House Tasservert? Son of Archduke Karlisle Tasservert the III?”

“Ah, you have heard of me then,” the Chronicler said with a smile. “Though I’m surprised to hear that news from the Archduchy carries all the way up here. I would have thought such politics would not interest the northerners.”

“Yes well,” Lafnis shrugged, “we do get the odd rumour from time to time. And it’s not like the Fyrste’s throne provides much gossip for these halls.”

She gave a modest bow of her head. “My lord.”

The Chronicler shook dismissively.

“Please, I am just the lowly fourth child with really no claims or titles to be had. I prefer my work over any sort of expressed nobility. What I do now will carry far beyond any courtly intrigue that my brethren may busy themselves with.”

“Pity,” Lafnis sighed, “and for a moment I thought you might be able to repay for your lodgings. But, it looks like you are in luck. The master has returned.”

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 3

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And so it goes.

The eponymous fantasy tavern. Concept art from Derek’s soon to be all time favourite game, Thief 4.

Chapter 2 – The Stony Entrance

Once across the threshold, his escort pressed the heavy door shut. Once in place, she lowered the latch and on this side the traveller could see that it was much larger than any he had expected. A curious mechanical device was fastened that allowed the latch to be raised and secured so the door could be moved by its own weight.

“For the storms,” she said. “It wouldn’t do to have your door slam open and a great shower of leaves to ruin everything you’ve got inside.”

Once the latch was fixed, she turned, carrying his staff about the room. She opened the storm lantern, removing the stub of what remained of the candle and lighting a few mounted about the space. Soon, the supports glowed a soft orange, dancing shadows over the long tables and benches filling the hall. The traveller could tell that this was an inn. His escort blew out the candle, placed it back in the lantern and handed the traveller back his staff.

“Welcome to the Stone Swan.”

“Is this establishment yours?” he asked incredulously.

She laughed.

“Does this place look like it was built by a woman?”

As she shook off her cloak, he took better stock of the hall. Most of the furniture and structure was crafted from the characteristic dark Naupstern hardwood. But much of the adornments appeared to be imported dark charcoal wood. Even the stones were blackened slate, creating a strange black on black on black design that was a confusing mass of the shade. The execution wasn’t even pleasing.

The decorations didn’t bode well either. Black polished mounting boards lined the walls. The grisly heads of gruesome beasts hung like a macabre trophy room. Weapons appeared rather neglected in between, their edges worn from use but dulled from a lack of maintenance. Which was a pity, for many were exotic arms gathered from across the realms. Curved swords and elegant bardiches hung against the dark frames. A small collection of rondel daggers with a particularly long and intimidating misericorde hung over the bar. There was a pair of stylish katars, a simple cinquedae, an enormous zweihander, several flails of various design, a pernach, guisarme, partisan and swordstaff. A sling, bow and pile of chakram hung on pegs and seemed to cover the ranged necessity.

While the collection was expansive, one element tied them all together. They were all favoured darkly, either their pommel stones and wraps or the wood and steel used for their construction were various hues and shades of the familiar black. And while many looked expensive and well-crated, none showed any affection after their acquisition.

In fact, the only thing that appeared to gleam with polished reverence was a collection of bottles behind the counter.

Ultimately, it didn’t look good.

The traveller turned back to his escort to find her laying her cloak over a table and fetching a pair of needle point pliers to begin picking at the leaves still caught in the heavy fabric. She motioned to the bench across from her as she worked, slowly wriggling the offending pieces free.

“They’re barbed with the smallest of hooks,” she explained. “Simply trying to fetch them out with your fingers will leave them embedded in your tips. You also need to work them carefully, least they catch while you’re teasing them free and tear the whole cloth.”

The traveller looked down at his own hand, the needles protruding grisly.

She didn’t even look up for her response.

“I started a fire in the back while you were looking around. Once the water is boiled, we’ll be able to tend to your cuts. Don’t worry, I have some thread and a needle and we’ll get the worse closed up before we set you to bed.”

She dropped one of the leaves into a small tin before turning to the next.

“Who… are you?”

“I could ask you the same. And seeing that you’re a foreigner to these parts, I feel mine would be more pertinent.”

“You don’t seem particularly local to me,” the traveller said.

That seemed to catch her attention as the pliers paused in her hand.

“Firstly, your accent is not accurate,” he explained. “It’s clear you’ve come to Janogradt recently. Your inflection still holds a hint of a southern land but nothing too distinct. I would gather a traveller or wanderer, even possibly from the City of Roads but it doesn’t sound that confused. Your clothes, barring that curious cloak, don’t seem local either. And given the slow trade that comes up these parts nowadays, it would suggest either you’re incredibly affluent or you acquired them in cheaper markets.”

She pursed her lips, laying down the pliers and regarding him carefully. Her eyes remained cool but her nostrils flared slightly, hinting at her annoyance.

“And you are a fool and a coward,” she said. “You bumble into danger, wholly unaware of the situations you enter, then immediately surrender to the first sign of trouble you encounter. It is a deadly mix of short sightedness and carelessness that will only lead you to an early grave.”

He bristled.

“It’s true what they say about Janogradt hospitality.”

He stood, trying to mask the pain still claiming his hand and moved towards the door. He got to the latch, struggling with the mechanism. But though he pulled on the handle, the contraption didn’t move. He jerked harder and harder against the iron but it rattled uselessly.

It wasn’t until he turned towards the window that she spoke.

“The storm will likely last night – a hidden blessing. I suggest you take the ‘Janogradt hospitality’ that you jeer and stay until it’s clear. Then you can see yourself safely on your way to whatever highway banditry you seek.”

“I am not looking to be robbed!” he exclaimed. “I am trying to get to Talarheim.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” she said, turning back to her work. “And if you weren’t so pig-headed you would realize that you’ve already arrived.”

“This is it then?” he exclaimed, his face searching about the inn once more. “This is the place?!”

“Well, I suppose the village is really out the door but I’d wait for morning until finishing that leg.”

The traveller hurried to a table, depositing his satchel upon it and struggling to free the latch. The woman was upon her feet immediately, hurrying to his side and easing him away from his things. He tried to protest but she led him back to a bench, talking over his outcries.

“We must addressed that hand first. I won’t have you make my job more difficult through impatience.”

But the traveller fidgeted upon his seat.

“Is this it then? Is this the inn of Talarheim?”

A whistle from the back drew her attention and she crossed the hall looking about the beams and supports.

“I suppose it is. Though I don’t reckon what sort of reputation would draw distant strangers to its hold.”

She moved into the back and he could hear her working beyond as she gathered her implements for the coming operation. The traveller raised his voice.

“The master of this place, is he here? Can you direct me to him?”

A few pots clattered.

“So far, I’m not of any mind to assist you. You still haven’t given me a name, stranger.”

She emerged with hands full and he scrambled to his feet rushing to her side. He attempted to assist with her load but she shrugged him aside and carried the large vessel of steaming water with a cloth soaking within. She had another container underneath her arm and she dropped that first before setting down the pot.

“I am a Chronicler,” he said slowly. “I seek to document in detail the information and lives of those that shape the history around us. So often people give to the bard’s tales, more entertained by their exaggeration and dramatic flair than in the true actions and events that inspire the stories. If we were left to nought but their songs, I fear what would be lost.”

“Perhaps there is more value in a story than the real event,” she dismissed, directing him to his seat.

The Chronicler shook his head.

“I disagree. Years from now, when those that come after us turn to our records, I feel they will want an accurate portrayal of what happened. Stories give us little but entertainment but there is much that can be learned in accurate documentation.”

“Such as?”

She took his hand gently in hers, fingers careful to avoid the bloodied leaves.

“Truth.”

“And what truth would send you so deep into Janogradt?”

She pressed his hand into the boiled water and he gave a great shout. Reflexively, he tried to pull his hand free, but she kept it submerged. Even though her fingers were in the hot water, she didn’t seemed bothered despite the searing pain tearing his.

“Don’t bite your tongue,” she warned.

He gritted his teeth, his body squirming and writhing as the pain encompassed his thoughts forcing all else out. But her warning was heeded and he retracted his tongue as far as he could though he could feel his skin sweating from the heat.

But she didn’t relent and as time began to pass, the initial shock began to fade. While his hand still stung, it no longer felt like his flesh was melting from his bones. He looked into the pot and saw a filthy reddish muck tainted the once pristine water. And as his muscles relaxed, he could feel her grip ease. He looked up at her, but found instead of the cold, austere exterior there was a softer, almost concerned face watching his closely.

He took a slow breath.

“I seek the Kinslayer.”

It was a reveal he hadn’t anticipated needing until the proper time. But there was little escape for him now. So much of the truth was already out that little could be gained by holding the rest.

“And you think to make your discovery here?”

“It’s what I’ve been led to believe. ‘Seek the lonely inn in distant Talarheim and you will find what you desire.’”

She looked to his hand, raising it from the water and turning it with gentle pressure upon his wrist. Satisfied with what she found, she pulled the damp cloth from the pot and rested it on the wood, placing his hand on top.

“Now, try not to move.”

She fetched her pliers then pulled an end of bench over. With precision, she grasped the protruding edge of the leaf and began to work it free. While she wiggled, the Chronicler could feel fresh stabs of pain course through his hand, but it was weaker than before and the damp liquid seemed to numb much of his sensations.

“It’s not as bad as it was,” he observed.

“I wouldn’t expect it too. I put in some alcohol and boiled some rudimentary medicine in it to help. We needn’t fear a dirty wound once we’re done.”

The first needle came free with a jolt of pain and she watched his reaction briefly before depositing the leaf in her tin and moving to the next. A silence feel between them as she worked. It was an awkward stranger to the Chronicler and he worried that perhaps he would have to be more direct to get his question answered.

“Well,” he began, “do you know if he’s here?”

“Who?” she asked, looking up. “Ah, your Kinslayer.”

She looked back down to her work, plucking the next leaf free before responding. Her lips scrunched up in brief thought and she shook her head.

“Can’t say I rightly do.”

“What of the innkeeper. Do you know him well?”

“Him?” she laughed. Then she paused, thinking to herself. “Well, I suppose I am not overly familiar with him.”

“Do you think he is the Kinslayer?”

“The legendary warrior who is said to have slain demons, rescued princesses, brought down kings and murdered their own blood?”

A smile played at her lips as if a great joke had been made. After a few moments she shrugged.

“I suppose there are stranger things in this world of ours. But if you truly seek the Kinslayer, don’t you think it will be a little difficult? What with the Kinslayer supposedly in hiding and presumed dead?”

“It may only be rumour,” the Chronicler said, “but there is little else to follow. So much of his story is untold. So much of it has been fabricated and slandered. It is my only wish to get the truth, from his own lips if able.”

“And what makes you think this version will be any more true than what others say?”

“Well, for one, I suspect he didn’t eat children.”

She laughed, pulling free another leaf.

“Perhaps you are right. Once I have finished with your hand I shall see to your room. In the morning you can meet with the keeper and determine for yourself if he is what you seek or not.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Well, he is likely sleeping now,” she replied. “And I have no intention of dealing with him in such a state. That’s my offer, Chronicler. You can take it, or I could toss you out to the stables until the morning then charge you for it.”

The Chronicler bristled but held back a retort.

“Very well.”

“Good, now keep very still, this one is a mite tricky.”

Kinslayer Chronicle Part 2

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It’s NaNoWriMo so you get my D&D Kinslayer Chronicle saga. Here’s part 2.

Old Pine by someone on the Internet

Chapter 1 – The Way Home

When the Crossroads breached the border of the Kingdom of Janogradt, they split at the foot of the rolling Hadzar hills. Janogradt is a dry, unforgiving land, but those hills served to channel the rain waters through their small valleys and create the only fertile land beneath the Fyrste’s eyes. However, much of it was not given up to farmland. For there nestled the burgeoning Naupstern forest, a woody expanse known for its particularly vicious growth.

The trees are said to embody the people who settled in this northern stretch of land. This forest is tall and strong, capable of weathering the bitter cold that comes sweeping down from the distant mountains. But despite the wood’s hardiness, its branches are a sharp specimen. Growing from its dark body are leaves with a curious prickly design sharp enough to draw blood from a touch that keeps visitors at arms length.

To say that not many make the travel through Janogradt would be an understatement.

And yet, there was the soft pound of boots upon the uneven stones following the wending end of that greatest of trade routes. The stones were foreigners to the earth and the land of Janogradt raised its defences. The ground buckled beneath, the earth expanding and contracting over the seasons with the frigid winds that drove over them even now despite winter still many moons away. The smoothed stones rose and dropped in precarious bumps. Few wheels wove across their surface and fewer hands had ever taken to the road’s care. Now, pieces tumbled into the weeds and short grass along its side as nature attempted to wrestle the invading force from its side.

The lone traveller paused, holding high his walking staff. Dangling upon the end and swinging in the wild breeze on a rusty chain was a storm lantern. Its unblinking gaze cast over the shadows of the nearby land. The lowest of the hills had begun to arise around him. The sparsest of copses clung to their edge, offering a mild buffer for the contemptuous air. But it was a welcome change from the long expanse of bare rocky nothing he’d crossed. Sight of those trees signalled he was getting close.

He pulled his cowl tighter about his chin, hoping to keep the invasive wind at bay. He gazed into the distance, judging the soft warm glow in the shadows. Despite the seeming lack of civilization, he had already been robbed – twice – on this journey. The first time he thought he’d been clever by keeping only a portion of his wealth in his purse while hiding the rest throughout his satchel. The idea had been that if his thieves were satisfied with what they found in the likely spots they wouldn’t search as thoroughly through the rest.

Course, they then took off with his horse and supplies so he ended up losing even more in replacing them when he finally reached a town. After the second robbery he began to realize that it would have been better keeping his fortune in a safe location far from this rugged land and just taking the first loss for what it was worth.

At this rate he’d actually be the pauper he tried to appear as and all his business with sorting through coins between ink pots and purse would be so much wasted time.

But if there was one blessing about reaching further north on the Crossroads, it was that even the bandits preferred to not nestle amongst these unforgiving lands. Thieves, it seemed, had more sense than travellers.

So, he suspected the glow in the distance was little more than the first of Janogradt’s farmsteads. However, given the land’s reputation, he didn’t think he’d receive a warmer reception than he got from the brigands. Thus, with the guttering light of his storm lantern, he stepped of the badly deteriorating road and continued on the uneven scrub clinging to the side. Each step was a precarious balance over sharp rocks and weeds. The soles of his boots were worn thin from the long journey and each pained step hurt more than the last. He leaned heavily upon his staff as he moved, trying to alleviate as much weight as he could.

With his unsteady gait, the satchel strung about his back began to beat irritatingly into him. He could hear the contents rattling inside and he gave a small prayer that his bottles didn’t unstopper and ruin his fine parchment. He also hoped his quills didn’t break with the jostling. All his implements were worth far more than the measly collection of coins he kept but no bandit would ever recognize their value. He couldn’t afford to replace them both now, neither with the coin or time he had left. Few places would carry the materials he would need, especially in this forsaken land.

But still he pressed onward. For if there was one thing worth the risk to his tools, it was what they were used for.

As the glow grew larger, the traveller reached up and began to draw the hood over his lantern, dimming its sides until he had but a narrow shaft to guide his progress. He kept a wary eye on the other light. Through the gloom, a simple wood structure seemed to meld into being. It was a low, squat building, partially bored into the ground. The roof was large, like a long and floppy hat pulled down over a young girl’s head. It also sloped at an unusual angle as if to hide itself amongst the jagged, spear-like trees growing around its side.

The house stuck from the side of the hill with much of the land cleared about it. The soil grew a squat, fern-like plant also unique to the region. It was the primary food stock of the kingdom’s cuisine, most others ill-suited for the northern climate and the short seasons between frigid winters. But this fern had adapted and grew quickly in abundance when these hills were said to weep instead of being watered from the sky.

The rest of the ground was dotted with large, craggy boulders removed from the main farm but ringing the property in a natural fence. Even in the dark, the traveller could see the soft, slightly off coloured mosses that grew outside of the growing season and provided the other staple for these stubborn folk. Much of it was scrapped off and used to feed their animals, but many wanderers returned from Janogradt with horrific tales of the cuisine the locals cooked for themselves from the stuff.

And that worried the traveller almost as much as a third robbery.

Hand falling to the waist bag holding what little of his food he still had, he hurried along in the dark. He stumbled and fell more than once. He twisted his ankle amongst the dark holes but not badly enough to stop. As the glow from the farmstead came and went, he began to breath easier. His mind lingered briefly on what would warrant someone being awake at this hour.

Once he felt secure enough, he stepped back to the road. His feet seemed to relax with the worn stones underfoot once more and he felt an unexpected cheerfulness take over. A small tune came to his lips and he began to whistle as he went. The wind pulled through the thickening trees on either side. Their branches groaned with his melody. Their reaching tops bowed gently in his passing. Their thick trunks began to create a barrier from the cold and he could feel a warmth return to his fingers that he’d nearly forgotten.

So wrapped was he in his contentedness that he didn’t realize he hadn’t unveiled his lantern after his stealthy passage. His vision limited, he didn’t catch the movement from the darkness nor did he hear the approach of footsteps until they were practically upon him.

“What are you doing?”

He nearly jumped from his clothes, swinging his staff wildly. The light crossed over a large figure and in shock he dropped the walking aid. It clattered against the stones, somehow the flame keeping alight and casting a long glow over a pair of thick, charred boots.

The shadow paused for but a moment before stepping forward. The darkness seemed to clutch and pull as the dark figure bent, grabbing the stick and raising it aloft again.

Reflexively, the traveller raised his hands.

“I don’t have much,” he pleaded. “Please, I only wish to make my way to Talarheim. I don’t mean you any harm.”

An arm brushed briefly into the beam raised accusingly against the traveller’s face. He flinched, squinting as he watched the hood about his lantern slowly pulled back. What he say in the illumination was not what he expected.

What first appeared as a mountain of a man wrapped in wild pelts was little more than a simple woman. She drew back the hood of her cloak, revealing a large collection of auburn hair done up in a curious mound that had given him the initial impression of height. The bulk of the cloak had added substantial mass to her figure, likely the thickness of the garment a direct relation to the coldness of the wind.

However, the one thing that hadn’t been dispelled by the shine was the large weapon upon her arm. Though she pulled it within the folds of her cloak after realizing the harmlessness of the traveller, she couldn’t fully hide the strange construct wrapping around her forearm and protruding past her fingers. It looked like a mechanical crossbow somehow mounted on her wrist but significantly deadlier.

Noticing his gaze, she simply shook her hair and subtly adjusted her stance to shift the contraption behind her body.

“A curious greet,” she said lightly, “it appears you’re not from around here stranger.”

“I am not.”

“Then no doubt you aren’t aware of the dangers of being out this late.”

The traveller smiled despite himself.

“Do not worry for me, little lady. I have braved much in coming here. The roads are not what they used to be. Not with the great trade with Etreria having long since dried up in these parts and the guard stations given over to occupation by bandits or animals.”

“I don’t mean simple banditry,” she replied. Before she could say more, her ears seemed to prick at some sound in the wind and she turned, slowly casting the lantern over the clinging shadows of the trees surrounding them. In that change of the wind, the traveller caught a curious odour. It was strong and pungent, a strange acrid mix of burnt flesh and only the Vanir knew what else.

But with the wind came even stranger sounds. Something scuttled in the darkness. Twigs snapped and cracked in the gloom. Perhaps it was all his imagination, but for a moment the traveller thought he heard an ominous clicking.

When last she looked back at him, her face was grave. She had clearly made some decision and grabbed the traveller roughly by the arm.

“We should see you indoors.”

He made to protest but the wind kicked up again. This time, the trees bowed before its indomitable passage. Detritus caught in its gust, a dizzying whirlwind of scratching dirt and slicing leaves. The landmark Naupstern forest released a biting whirlwind upon them and he caught the woman quickly pulling her cloak tightly about her like a tortoise retreating into its shell.

The traveller had no such preparations. He grabbed for his cowl, pulling the hood as far over his face as he could. But this merely exposed his hand. He could feel the sharp cuts as the leaves tore about him. The wind seemed to enfold them as if it searched for a weakness in their protection. His clothes tugged upon his body, trying to pull him away the centre of the path. And then, just as it had begun, the wind began to die and he released the hem of his hood to watch the leaves scatter and whirl across the ragged stone path.

His new companion stirred, cautiously emerging from her thick cloak. Pieces of leaves protruded from its surface as if she had suddenly donned a great vestment of quills. The staff light raised, the lantern casting its warm pool of light over the traveller. She frowned and gave an urgent pull upon his arm.

“Come, this way. I know a place. We should get you inside before the storm gets worse.”

And in that brief ray of light, the traveller hazarded a look at his hand.

The flesh was bright red, thin cuts running in a wild pattern over the skin. Blood seeped to the surface like a sticky, warm glove upon his fingers. A few leaves stuck from his skin like tiny arrows. And as his worry began to pass, the throbbing pain from his ravaged hand tore up his arm..

The tugging upon his arm drew him quickly down the road before he could begin to wail in agony. He wasn’t aware of their passage, pulling his wounded limb close to himself and applying what pressure he could to alleviate the stinging. At one time he reached to pluck the needles from his skin but his companion swatted his hand away and told him they weren’t far.

The trees groaned again, heralding the coming of another gust. But this time, his companion was prepared. Just as the winds descended upon them, she pulled him close, burying his face deep into the fabric of her cloak as she seemed to wrap about him like a mother swaddling a child. The wind slammed into them like a tidal wave, but she held. He heard the lantern clattering in the gust and the prickling of the assault as it pierced through his robes. The leaves clattered against his satchel and he thought he heard the telltale sounds of them burying deep into the wood.

As the pressure against them subsided, she pulled herself away and dragged him with even greater urgency.

He barely noticed the thickening forest and rising hills growing about him. He could hear the great wood groaning beneath the weight of the storm. And the further they went along that road, the more numerous the homes became. But they were all dark, thick planks of dark wood drawn over their windows and heavy curtains of fabric unrolled before the doors. Soon, stone walled buildings emerged from the gloom. In the swinging glow of the storm lantern he could see the foreign rock scratched and marked all across its surface.

She led him to one of those stone structures. Unlike the other buildings, this one had been constructed wide and tall, clearly of foreign architectural design. Windows lined the upper floors, a few boarded with the local dark wood. The rest appeared to be grudgingly decorated with the shutters adoring the rest of the village as if the owner had finally abandoned a stubborn attempt to assert a cultural dominance.

Clanking in the wind over the door was a wrought iron sign, dented and battered despite its recent make. A stylized swan had been wrought, it’s long neck stretching down and under it in a gesture that the traveller couldn’t decipher. His escort, seeing his curious glance at the image, merely shook her head.

“Pay it no mind.”

She leaned against the thick door, her hand darting out to test its latch. Pressing her shoulder against the wood, she grunted as she opened the door. The latch clanked and the door groaned as it scrapped across the wood floor inside. She opened a crack wide enough for them to enter. Beckoning for the staff, she held the lantern aloft and slipped inside.

The traveller took a moment to peer into the gloomy depths. He knew not what awaited him within but as he heard the trees creaking once more, he knew it couldn’t be worse than what was coming outside. Whispering a silent prayer, he slipped across the portal.

The Kinslayer Chronicle Part 1

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So, the National Write a Novel in a Month has begun. As such, I will be drawing upon my backlog of writery in order to provide my posts for the next month or so. This is a new little something I wrote this year. It also was a gift – though perhaps pre-order would be more accurate as I’m now going to post it to the rest of the world. But, at least enough time has passed that the original receiver should have finished it by now.

Now you, fellow readers, get to profit. Enjoy!

Johann_Heinrich_Füssli_-_Silence_-_WGA08336

Silence by Johann Heinrich Fussli

Prologue – The True Nature of Silence

There are some that say silence exists in three parts. The first is the most common. It is the empty, hollow song that fills the brokered space between noise. It is the silence that lays still in forgotten crypts, on empty roads or amongst abandoned farmsteads. It is the hard, cold silence that drives men to seek shelter and refuge in the only establishments designed to keep its foreboding presence at bay.

It is the reason that the group of young men huddled in the confines of the new Stone Swan Inn. Their burnished mugs clattered against the dented, worn table tops like so many others had before. Their fingers tapped against the wood. Those that could, whistled disjointed chords and off-tune melodies. They fidgeted. They sniffled. They coughed and swallowed. They did everything but talk, and in doing so they provided the second silence.

It was the silence of that which is unspoken. The silence that hides behind other words. It is the traitorous silence, waiting for just the moment when the guard is down to quietly open the door and usher the first in.

But the third silence was the most insidious. It was also the most subtle. Had one sat in that hall for the entire evening they may not even notice its presence. It didn’t hang awkwardly about the cautious young men. It didn’t linger outside the windows wrapped in the deepening night. It buried itself deeper and enveloped the heart of its carrier like a heavy, stone blanket. It pressed down in a crushing grip, squeezing out all other feelings.

It was the silence of one waiting for the end. And the others in the inn knew not that it was carried amongst them.

For none even thought to look.

The five young men pounded the tables with the flats of their hands: their signal for more booze. In the corner the innkeeper nodded obliging, setting down the thick bottles he dutifully polished. He slipped over to their table, offering a friendly smile as he scooped up their mugs and deposited them on the back counter. He opened his mouth to call, but his assistant was there before any words emerged. Silently, the mugs vanished to the back and returned before the keeper could run his hand through his unearthly vibrant redder than red hair.

His lips pursing into an unfamiliar tune to the locals, he brought the drinks back, easily dropping them before their eager fingers before resuming his position at the back. He picked up a new bottle, slowly turning it in his hands as he gently rubbed its surface.

For the inn was his and his domain to see over. Just as the silence was his to keep and hold at bay. For the innkeeper was the ruler of all he purveyed and he didn’t concern himself with that which lay in the shadows.

A Treatise On Magick Part 4

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These are the last of my notes on my magic system for my Thyre universe. While this gives a good, general view of the current thoughts on how magic works in this world, it doesn’t truly capture all the elements and how I worked them in. For instance, the previous section mentioned Alchemy briefly and how it relied almost one hundred percent on following precise formula to perform. It didn’t, however, explain the ramifications of this detail.

One thing I didn’t want was to have magic to feel separate and disconnect from the rest of the world. I feel there’s often a tendency for fantasy to have its world and the wizards as two distinct classes. Like Harry Potter, those that wield magic only have an impact whenever the author wants something grandiose to occur. But the face of the world is rarely so affected by the existence of magic for it to permeate any other aspect of its society or culture.

It strikes me as odd that in a world where people are capable of turning a man into a newt that the entire fabric of society is pretty indistinguishable from Medieval Europe. Why is it that so rarely rulers are people that mastered the arcane? Would not ambitious individuals learn the magical arts and then turn to conquering with their new found powers? So beholden are we to late Arthurian Legends and Tolkien imaginings that wizards are little more than the mysterious mentor who flutters in and out of the narrative at the author’s convenience but rarely ever leaving a footprint on the world during his trespasses.

For me, that would not do. To circle back to my mention of alchemy, the natural outcome of its elements was that while it took a typical magical background to learn its components one didn’t have to truly be a great practitioner to derive its benefits. This translated into the field of medicine. So much of alchemy is about changing the body that it seemed quite natural that its study and application would eventually create doctors, surgeons and apothecaries. Every single doctor in my world is a classically trained sorcerer. Each of them is capable of some degree of magic. Many who seek education from the marble halls aren’t pursuing some romanticized vision of reshaping the cosmos at the bend of their fingers but simply to learn the alchemical trade so they can help the sick and the needy. And because alchemy isn’t so reliant on the deep, esoteric knowledge of most sorcery, you could have your most daft pupil still learn something helpful and applicable to the rest of the world.

A humorous outcome from this, however, is that many sorcerers often look disparagingly upon their medicinal kin. It’s a common belief amongst the scholars that doctors are just “failed sorcerers.” However, to the common man, the doctor is the epitome of applicable magick. Few are able to afford a household sorcerer for protection and prestige so most encounter sorcerers when needing attendance for the infirm and sickly. The common man sees the typical scholar as a cloistered recluse out of touch with society and a useless member to the Empire.

In many ways, the modern sorcerer is a tragic figure. So desperate are they to cling to their ancient ways even when those ways fail them. They seek a glory long lost and forgotten all the while under siege by the progress of time and technology. Theirs is a dying world and instead of seeking a true solution to their problem, they just raise their walls and cut themselves further and further off. They are like a small animal, crawling into the dark beneath a porch in order to die alone and out of sight.

Scholar Reading by Rembrandt van Rijn

Notes from Professor Jonas Kaine’s Injunction

Concerning University Curricula

The power of a sorcerer is limited only by his imagination.

This quote by the renown practitioner Malchior the Grey, has been the idealism of the arcane practices for centuries. Throughout history, the tales of powerful sorcerers have been retold. Everyone recalls the power of the ancient Pharoic’s court and their awe-inspiring priests capable of raining locusts and blood down upon their enemies.

Almost every culture has its own sorcerers of lore; the great men capable of harnessing the elements to their whim. Even the dread witches of childhood fables and villains of the legends of old were capable of tremendous feats of arcane channelling.

It may seem oddly disconnecting for the modern practitioner beginning to learn the secrets of the aether. Where are the terrific storms? Why does the earth not groan at the passage of the sorcerer, his will causing even the Lord to shudder in fear?

Partly, legends have exaggerated the abilities of the sorcerers. People, especially the layman in the dark times, did not understand how the magickal truly worked. Their fears and suspicions twisted the reports of their sorcerers into terrifying men who would dare challenge the heavens.

That is not to suggest that the enlightened man is incapable of feats beyond the simple glamours and charms taught to the initiates. Controlling the aetheric winds is a challenging but greatly awarding practice. There is tremendous power to be tapped in the world around us, more than even the Academics and the sceptics care to admit.

The truth of the matter is that invocations are limited. There is just so much energy that man is capable of channelling on his own. However, ancient man made a rather terrific discovery: the process of invoking can be delayed with the correct use of retention wards and actions.

An invocation is like digging a dike beside a rapidly flowing river. The sorcerer creates a channel they wish to redirect some of that energy, but the process is never truly completed until the shoreline is breached. However, the dike itself can last for quite some time – it need not be filled immediately.

Thus, the first rituals were cast by combining certain key invocations and timing their completion at the simultaneous moment. This allowed a sorcerer to produce a single effect far greater than any individual cast. Suddenly, terrific powers were unlocked to the resourceful mind. But with all things, there were limitations. Not all invocations would work together and many would have to be adjusted to ritual use.

However, unlike invocations, it was discovered that universal actions would produce the same results. Assuming the practitioner could isolate themselves from contaminating the ritual, just about any sorcerer could channel the same effect as their peer if they followed the same processes. This was like alchemy but at a greater level.

Even more astounding, multiple sorcerers could combine their might. This could reduce the amount of time it took to prepare a ritual and also opened up even greater and greater effects for the arcane. With precise co-ordination, effects eerily similar to the legends could suddenly be performed.

The danger ran with the inclusion of each practitioner. The more sorcerers involved, the greater the chance of contamination. While the greatest abilities required the most practitioners, the more men channelling also entailed more risk. This is why the most powerful rituals never really developed very far. Only the most experienced could produce the effects with any sort of reliability. And one wrong step could produce the most disastrous results.

Few are aware of the dangers of channelling the arcane. The layman mistakenly assumes that a sorcerer is a master of his art – that the arcane is a well of power which they can siphon freely. This is incredibly misleading. The arcane is highly energetic and reactive. If a sorcerer missteps, the best they can hope for is a harmless atmospheric discharge of the energies often misconstrued as an unimpressive glamour. There are, however, far worst consequences for the sorcerer.

One phenomenon called aetheric flashback is a chief concern amongst those drawing on lots of the arcane. Should a sorcerer incorrectly channel the great deal of energy, they could find that the currents of the aether blow back upon him. This energy burst is most commonly released in a tremendous amount of heat and light. To the untrained, it may look like a sudden conjuration of fire sweeping over the bewildered sorcerer. The least severe can just leave the sorcerer disfigured and burned.

More likely, however, if an aetheric flashback is produced the sorcerer will be consumed by the very unrestrained energy that they have released.

Current knowledge of the aether is sparse, but it is widely believed that the aether is not a passive medium through which energy flows. Many practitioners believe there are natural currents which energy travels willingly through. Learning to navigate these streams can greatly increase a sorcerer’s skill in channelling the arcane.

However, known currents are not eternal. They are more like winds, apt to sudden change in direction one day rendering any attempts to harness them rendered useless.

Aetheric currents are not of typical concern in invocations because of such a short and focused release of energy. However, rituals almost always require the use of these ever changing channels. Many scholars argue that this explains why ancient rituals are not longer effective. There is a common theory that ancient magickal practices have been lost as the great currents that ancient practitioners tapped have all but vanished.

Most rituals can be changed and adapted to the fickle nature of the aether. However, the oldest rituals are nothing but intriguing studies for the modern sorcerer who can only guess what the effects of many of these arts were capable of producing. And the stories of small cabals of sorcerers being lost in terrific explosions warn against foolishly attempting to “brute force” a ritual through a no longer existent stream.

There is one other major concern for rituals that should be mentioned. While every practice of the arcane requires some amount of cost (typically the ingredients required for the invocation), the cost of rituals is far greater than any other practice. While many will scoff at the idea of cost impinging the great study of the arcane – only those that work closely with rituals can truly begin to appreciate the expense. Some rituals turn relatively cheap invocations into a practice requiring almost a princely sum to perform. Coupled with the danger of a misfired ritual which will often destroy all the components, it is no wonder that rituals have mostly fallen out of favour with the common practitioner.

The study of rituals is still an important one. It is something that this University should not abandon in its research. While there are many difficulties involved, it is still a valuable tradition to keep alive. For one, it maintains a connection with the practices of the ancient sorcerers. It also gives further insight into the matter which sorcerers tangle with daily. Never is our ignorance of the arcane made so clear than when we attempt to understand the workings of rituals. They bring the importance of procedure and time to the forefront of a practice so wholly focused on the wills of the individuals.

Outlawing rituals would thus be detrimental to all this institute’s principles. Instead, I propose that the study of rituals is strictly limited to those capable of its investigation and who are willing to accept the risks involved.

If we weren’t prepared to take risks, then we would be nothing more than those lowly mechanists digging about in the ground.

A Treatise on Magick Part 3

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My earlier breakdown in a treatise on magick created three classifications for sorcery: the ward, glamour and charm. However, as I pondered the role and use of magick in my world, I felt that having just these three options could be too limiting to my writing. Magic, afterall, is meant to be the strongest fantastical element of my story. These wondrous components are the hallmarks of the fantasy genre. I feel readers read fantasy precisely for the mysterious and mystifying elements and I didn’t want things too actually be dry and boring. I just wanted to give the feel that most people in my world found magic to be boring.

I was, essentially, pursuing that pre-Einstein field of thought. Physicists felt they had covered just about all the field had to offer with Newton’s laws and only the smallest of details remained. We know now that such a perspective couldn’t be further from the truth. But I wanted that sense that magic was on the decline. And without resorting to some sort of mystical explanation that the “magic” of the world was “vanishing” I instead opted to just have the mystery for its people dispelled.

But to make sure I didn’t ultimately leave myself written into a corner, I decided I would leave a small loophole. Thus, invocations and rituals were born. They would be the explanation, the metaphorical hand wave, that I could use whenever my sorcerers did something beyond the expected. What he did may not have been a glamour, ward or charm. It could be an invocation – the catchall for everything that I hadn’t the foresight to have penned down before my system had been completed.

Domenico_Fetti_-_Portrait_of_a_Scholar_-_WGA07862

Portrait of a Scholar by Domenico Fetti

Invocations, Rituals and Alchemy: Cornerstones of the Magickal Trade

Excerpts from the lecture by Emmanuel Dupont

No doubt, young initiate, you have perused the nature of the magickal. You have glimpsed upon the vast aether and felt the lines of power that course through it. Undoubtedly, you have received a pseudo-intellectual explanation of the greatest of the natural forces. You think you understand the rudimentary concepts of flavours and shades. You believe that wind is composed of wind energy.

Well, my young initiate, you are wrong.

The use of the arcane is a far more complicated matter than conjuring the soft stirrings of a breeze or creating the tinkling of a bell. You will notice, in your practices, that you require ingredients and foci in order to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. Sure, you’re aware of the anchors for wards and have seen the sorcerers in the market purchasing an eclectic assortment of bits and bobs. You have the mental image of the mystique gentleman, waving about tails of newts and sprigs of holly in order to cause the very earth to shudder at his whim.

These foolish notions are even encouraged by my colleagues. They are drunk on the power of the arcane. They have tasted the sweet wine of the aether and have become lost in its heady aromas.

Well, young initiate, things are not so easy. If it were, anyone could be a sorcerer. Even the fair maids of the gentler sex would be able to tame the wild forces of chaos and nature. However, things are not so simple, and most of you will never progress beyond the basics.

The arcane is still a mysterious force even to this day. Despite our many journals, theories and practices, we still do not understand exactly how the forces work. Why do cinders and pine needles release such power to cause drowsiness in those who inhale their fumes? Why does willow bark coated in honey allow one to hide themselves beneath a veil of a foreign face?

The simple explanation, as you have heard, is that every thing contains a certain attuned energy. A flame is attuned to fire. Wind is attuned to air. The natural question would be how many types of energy are there and how do you identify them?

And that would be the wrong question.

The most basic concept is that every thing has its own unique energy. Mine is different than yours which is different than your mother’s which is different than the Queen’s. Yet we all have the same basic ‘human’ energy. We will all use our own to create glamours. However, if I hold up a piece of willow bark and admix with my own energy, I will create a different glamour than you will. Don’t believe me, let’s have some volunteers. You sir, with the dazed look. And you, mister, the one who looks like he’s old enough to teach this lecture.

Come here. I have a simple glamour for you to perform. Take this bell and rattle and create a glamour that will make the rattle ring with the clarity of the church clocktower. The rest of you, observe carefully the notes produced.

You see? Your drowsy pupil made a sound almost like a simple country church bell. One, I would dare say, sounds like it were cracked deeply down its side. And this excellent gentleman has produced a sound so clear I dare hazard it would put the great church of Thyre to shame.

And yet, neither of them have performed a different glamour. Each has focused the sound of the bell through the rattle. So what causes these differences? Is it the obvious difference in age, handsomeness, intelligence, diligence, height, weight or even hair colour? Perhaps the very diet differences between these two gentlemen has caused the energies to be different. It can not be the bell and rattle, for they were the same between.

You see, invocations are a complex practice. One that starts with you: the practitioner. You must be acutely aware of the power of your admixture. It is a quantifiable fact that there will be some of you that are just naturally more adapt at the use of the arcane. Some of you will find that your energy only produces the slightest of glamours.

Invariably, you lowly initiates will take this as a sign of superiority. Obviously, those with the weakest energies, the softest of wills must surely be closer to the mundane. They must be just one step away from those completely incapable of practising any magick whatsoever.

And, once again, your prejudice would betray your ignorance.

Some of the greatest sorcerers were those with the weakest personal wills. That is for the simple conclusion that they are able to dilute their essences the easiest. It is a fact that the greatest wills in this class will struggle to produce anything that is not a glamour. And, while the powers of glamours are certainly impressive, your wills will greatly reduce your ability to invoke charms and wards. Consequently, you will also be the least desirable for participation in rituals.

Naturally, it is not raw power that is important but the cunning and wit of one’s mind that is fundamental for the channelling of the arcane. Those with weak wills can focus their invocations through other humans and other objects. They are better able to grasp the concept of using multiple admixtures and proxy foci. They are keen to the supplemental rituals, especially those requiring multiple practitioners to suppress their own wills in the collaborations.

Of course, some of you will argue and rail against my words. I welcome the challenge of your rebelliousness. Some of the greatest sorcerers are those of Teutanic descent, a people that have consistently shown remarkable forces of will. In fact, my greatest and most controversial pupil was of this barbaric ancestry.

And that is, in my mind, because those of strong wills have greater command of the energies that they do channel. While weaker willed practitioners will be very adept at multiple implements and foci, stronger willed practitioners that overcome their own flaws can get the most out of single ingredients than any other.

But enough of that. You came here to learn the basics of invocations.

Invocations create the bulk of magicks you will channel. They are your daily conjurations and enchantments. They are the skills you will call upon to defend yourself in confrontations. They are the spells you will use to conduct your research.

An invocation is little more than the simple release and channel of the energy from one or more simple ingredients. While they appear to be the simplest of skills in theory, they are also the hardest to create. They require an intimate knowledge of the ingredients and how they react with the self. For this reason, sorcerers naturally find a collection of invocations that they prefer. These are the most familiar invocations. For example, one of my familiars is a refraction glamour – a complex invocation to most but allows me to cause any one item to appear to vanish. Behold the rattle from the earlier demonstration. I want you to watch it carefully.

You see, it has vanished completely from sight. It appears as if I am not even holding it but observe – the slightest flick of my wrist and you can still hear it as clear as day. And before you ask, no I will not teach you this glamour. Why, you may ask, to which I have my own question. What were my components? What were my admixtures?

You didn’t see them, did you. What’s that? No, they were not hidden within the rattle, but that thinking will take you far. Very far indeed.

Observe – you see, I have had this stone beneath my tongue this entire time. The second component I use is the brass of my jacket button. That’s it, just these two simple components. Seems quite rudimentary but this is a familiar of mine. It will take most of you at least three more components to create the exact same invocation. Some of you will require even more. And even a couple of you will be unable to perform this without the execution of a secondary ward.

You see, despite all our research and study, the practice of magick is still an intensely personal affair. You can not just read a library of books and understand how to channel the arcane. It requires constant, daily practice. It requires intense study. It requires a persistence and strength of character that not all possess.

Most of you will struggle to ever perform anything beyond the simplest of invocations and may never develop any familiars. However, the study of the arcane is not a worthless pursuit to you. You see, even the dullest of minds can still capitalize on the qualities of components. All of you can practice alchemy.

Alchemy is almost a form of a ritual, you see. It has precise ingredients in specific measurements. It creates arcane effects but it completely removes the human element from the process. It is the channelling by recipe. All those books you see in the studies of the most successful sorcerers are likely to be alchemical books. You needn’t a familiarity to brew. You need just to be able to follow precise instructions.

It appears we have run out of time, however. Tomorrow, we will address the specifics of rituals and then I shall introduce you to the fundamentals of rituals.