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

Chapter 7 – Intermission

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

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

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

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

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

The Chronicler was, figuratively, left on his own.

“I’m sure they were lovely people.”

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

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

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

Koudi turned towards him.

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

“Iomhair.”

“Excuse me?”

The Chronicler reassessed his position.

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

“I… suppose you are right.”

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

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

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

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

“Let me describe to you true suffering.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heard my Caenn’s all to clearly though.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t rightly know.”

“Did it even take to midday?”

“Perhaps not.”

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

“What are you suggesting, my Caenn?”

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

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

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

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

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

My father seemed to struggle as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You blame her, don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But my father wasn’t there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

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?

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.

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?

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.”

And so it goes.

 

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.”

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

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.

 

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!

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.