Gillan’s stew smells incredible. It bubbles over the rectangular fire he quickly assembled as the rain began to fall. What kind of man is Gillan, that he carries fine spices with him on military missions? When I met him first in Kitford’s tavern, his leathery skin and taut muscles reminded me of an alley cat. Now I see that he is more like an elk - delicate and graceful.
I have never actually seen an elk, but now that my travels have begun, it is only a matter of time. While we talked last night, Aduren told me of his marvelous adventures. In every place, he told me, there is a different light and a different evil. ‘I go to experience the light, and vanquish the evil’, he said. Forty-eight hours ago I had never killed a man. Twenty-four ago I was a slave to fear of pain and death. Just over twelve hours ago I learned of the gods’ mercy first hand. Two hours ago, I realized that I want to live the life Aduren has crafted for himself. I have not yet asked for permission to become his traveling companion, but I think I will do so tonight. Everything will be perfect after we have vanquished whatever evil seeped into Kitford while we were away.
There is a new member of our troupe now. It is the bard to whom I fumbled my words in the Magma. He is small, quizzical, and lively in an unorthodox sense. He speaks to Coran and Herskel now, and their faces darken as his tale goes on. The bard looks to the ground now as he speaks, unable to watch the older men process his words.
I stand quietly, careful not to disturb the grave tale the bard must be telling. Not long ago, the idea that Coran and Herskel understood something that I did not would have caused me overwhelming anxiety, but now I trust. I trust in the true gods, the men about me, and my new friend. I stand not because I intend to eavesdrop on the troupe’s leaders, but because I want to amend my image with the bard. I despise who I was when we spoke last, and I want him to understand what I am now. Even once it is shed, one’s weakness can live on in the minds of those around him. In order to utterly eradicate the frightened child I once was, I must also destroy the shadow he cast in the memories of others.
Coran departs towards the makeshift horse-pen as I approach, leaving only the bard and mayor locked in awkward silence. I shatter it with the tone of my newfound confidence.
“What news of Kitford, friends?”
Herskel plasters a pained grimace on his angular features and chews his tongue as he stares into the dirt. The bard gazes directly into my eyes, expression exactly as it was when I approached. His cheeks and lips render an understanding smile, but his eyes say nothing at all.
“To the torch again, I’m afraid.” Herkel’s voice is fragile and exhausted. He looks hesitantly to the bard once more before patting my shoulder and slipping past to follow Coran. My faith does not waiver, but I cannot help but internalize the concern these three men seem to share.
“That’s the truth?” I ask the bard, more timidly this time.
“Overrun and burnt to a crisp,” he confirms. His smile is queer. Much like the one Pa Greyson used to wear when tempting a servant boy or girl with a luxury they could never acquire. It is believable, but garners the faintest hint of distrust. Were we still in the Magma tavern, I might feel some suspicion, but I remember now that this man must have just witnessed the second plundering of Kitford. Of course his smiles are tense and forced. A miracle he can smile at all. Instead of dwelling on the ill fated, I extend my hand.
“‘Fraid we didn’t meet proper the first time. M’name ‘s Malthen.” I don my own, genuine smile now. He takes my grooved, scarred worker’s hand in his own, smaller, countryman’s paw. We begin to shift towards Gillan’s fire even as he takes my hand in his.
“Hex.”
I eye Hex’s lute where it hangs at his back. It is scratched and made rough by more scuff marks that I can count, but it is also well oiled. It reflects the waning sunlight and blossoming firelight unnaturally, almost as though it is a source of light itself. I’m sure Hex would be happy to talk about his lute, and I search for the best way in which to praise it.
“They what!?” Aduren’s shout breaches the contemplative fireside environment. He stands with Coran by the horses. It seems Coran has shared information of Kitford’s unfortunate fate. All eyes follow the two warriors now. Coran methodically loosens his mare’s girding strap and prepares to remove her saddle. He has the aspect of a defeated man in posture and expression, and he pays Aduren’s obnoxious attempts to draw his gaze no mind.
“Friends!” Aduren shouts again, drawing all but Gillan and Hex to their feet. I lead what remains of the Kitford troupe to gather about Coran’s horse. Although I trust in Aduren’s judgment, I cannot help but feel as though we are causing Coran pain. He clearly does not want to address the issue at the moment, but it seems we have forced it upon him. So he draws himself up as straight as his bandages permit and addresses the assembled men in a labored tone. He hesitates for a moment, likely searching for a positive light in which to deliver grim news. He settles for honesty.
“Kitford ‘s been pillaged.” I exchange a glance with Marshall, who seems not to understand. It has not yet occurred to him that the horror of raiders could have struck again. Coran continues.
“Again.” In the streets of Kitford, Coran gave a speech full of desperation and bravado, but now he speaks only with melancholy. He turns now to Kha and Marshall, who have not yet given in to tears. “Ye’ are unlikely to see anyone from yer home again.” The two boys nod bravely, unwilling to lay their emotions bare just yet.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“The truth is…. Our houses ‘ave been put to the torch….” A fit of coughing racks his once formidable form. He spits blood and phlegm into the moist dirt. “And our belongings ‘ave been taken… by foreigners with no right to set foot ‘ere.”
All are solemn but Aduren and I. My mentor can feel a holy quest ripe in the making, and I can feel his energy. His fingers tap anxiously on the handle of his mace. He is ready for action, but I cannot help but feel that his excitement is misplaced. Coran looks up into Aduren’s eyes. There is no hatred. Only dejection against excitement. Resignation against ire. The holy warrior prompts the older man.
“So??” Coran breaks Aduren’s gaze, and the younger man trembles with the passion of victory.
“So I’all be heading to th’ garrison at Lionskeep, and ye all are welcome to follow.” Coran jerks the saddle from his steed, shaking droplets of rain and sweat from the cracking leather.
Aduren does not understand. His lips tremble. His nostrils flare. Someone as virtuous as he cannot understand the average man’s decision to give up. I do not respect Coran for his decision, but I see the logic in it. We are few, and we are tired. If I did not have the faith Aduren instilled in me, I too would doubt our odds against Kitford’s newest ravagers. Aduren is sputtering and spitting in the mud now.
“But...they took your home!” Coran continues to undo the straps holding his saddle bags to his mare’s flank.
“You cannot let that stand!”
It is a sorry scene. A radiant young man in all of his glory waving a mace in the air and shouting at an older man. I wish Aduren would stop. I do not care for him any less, but I see there is no way to sway Coran now. Aduren turns to the rest of the assembled men, each one now soaking and beginning to shiver.
“They destroyed your life’s work!!”
Realizing how alone he is, Aduren turns back to Coran and delivers his fatal blow.
“They murdered your friends, and you…”
“Don’t you think I know that!” Coran is leaning heavily on his mare, pushing off of her flank in order to stand nose to nose with his tormentor. His entire armored form trembles with exertion, rage, and overwhelming grief. “But this ain’t Elysium is it! We don’t get to live how we want!” Even Aduren is surprised at Coran’s intensity. “This ain’ no fairy tale BOY. ‘Em raiders wanna kill ya. Everything in this damn Centrum’s out to kill ya.” Coran’s voice has given out and now he yells in a hoarse whisper. “Even yer gods tried to kill ya! Ye wanna fight so much, you just ride down that road into the flames of our childhood and take it out on them fuckers!” Coran loses his grip on his mount and stumbles into Aduren. The younger man shakes him off as a few last words sputter forth from his ruined lips. “With yer mindless blundering, ye won’t live long anyway….”
The Captain’s eyes roll back in his head and Aduren shoves him away, disgusted. It is of no import to him that Coran could crack his skull on a roadside stone or drown in the muck. I move to catch Coran as he falls, but I am too slow. Kha beats me with one long arm, catching the unconscious soldier, armor and all. The gentle giant lifts Coran and gingerly totes him towards the fire.
Aduren spits after Kha, disgust written in every line of his body.
“Surely you all aren’t cowards! Follow me and let us avenge this ingrate!” I place my hand on my sword in solidarity, but I know he has lost this crowd. “YOU!” He jabs his holy weapon at Marshall, but the boy does not react. “Surely you want your home back!” Marshall does not move. Too offended or too scared. “Don’t you?! You’re USELESS! All of you.”
Aduren stalks away from the reviled crowd toward his own mare. He sees only cowards, too weak to see the gods’ truth. The men of Kitford see only a bloodthirsty bastard. Only I understand both. Aduren is too strong, too pure to understand the plight of normal men. I will speak with him later and convince him not to enter Kitford alone. But now is not the time. Anger must be allowed to fade before even the best of men can be expected to reason.
I follow the trailing line of dejected Kitford men back into the peaceful aura of Gillan’s small blaze. All eyes follow the ranger’s nimble fingers as he replaces Coran’s rigid, matted bandages. Kha holds Coran effortlessly, standing perfectly still while Gillan does his work. Despite his impending form, I can’t help but think of Kha as some sort of dog now. He seems gentle, loyal, and always lingering at the heel of an older man. First, he hid under Brandon’s wing. Aduren told me Sirene’s weakness lived in Brandon’s heart. He explained that it caused what could be a valiant warrior to hide away in a small town such as Kitford, preaching non-violence to boys like Kha. Now it seems Kha has taken a liking to Gillan. I see now that Aduren was right, but I do not hate Kha for his weakness. It strikes me now that I do not hate much of anything anymore. So euphoric is my newfound purpose that hate no longer seems a relevant emotion.
I recline in my small aisle of dry twigs and leaves, gazing up into the bough providing my shelter. To my right sits Marshall - youthful, brave, and full of Visier’s victory. To my left, Hex savors Gillan’s brew in complete silence. He is quick, mysterious, and difficult to read, but I am confident that I will soon understand him as I understand the rest of these men. Kha and Gillan still tend to Coran’s grievous chest wound, harmoniously synchronized in their efforts to stymie the infection that would take their friend’s life. Herskel sits in inanimate observation, likely praying for his companion’s life. Cursing his mortal impotence. It is a stifling, excruciating feeling of depression and powerlessness. One I used to feel with respect to my own life. Never again. Under Aduren’s tutelage, I will soon save more lives than every man in this circle combined.
I have known these men for just over forty-eight hours, but already they compose more of a family than any sorry gathering in the Greyson house ever did. I feel more camaraderie at this campfire than I ever did with my own brothers at the internment camp I used to call home. This moment would be perfect if Aduren did not sulk somewhere off in the darkness. Even if he will not return to the fire, I must speak with him.
I rise quietly and leave my pack for the first time in months. I trust my food, coin, and sword to the men at this fire. I have never felt this kind of trust before, and it is inexplicably liberating. I bask in the elation of newfound camaraderie as I trek into the darkness to find the man who salvaged my soul.