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Resolve separates men from mice.
Instead of fearing yer untimely demise,
Chance another throw of the dice.
-
Dictum written above Solemn Lord’s spot,
attributed to Sibren Maats,
inside the famed Ebenezer Framtond’s Hall,
-Aka the headquarters of the Adventurer’s Guild in Asturia-
Circa 185 NC
[https://i.imgur.com/OVhjxYG.jpg]
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Sibren ‘Solemn’ Maats
At least yer sort of back in the North
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“Farvor is near Sallowhall right?” Sirio asked, left side of his face still recovering and now sporting three colors, his natural, a putrid yellow and a strong mauve -almost black- around the stitches. Other than that, he was fine, as reaching Gudgurth Fort had lifted his spirits. A man that could change his mood in the blink of an eye seemingly.
“Closer to Pastelor I’d say,” Sibren grunted, eyeing the passersby outside the open doors of the small tavern. Gudgurth was built on the Flat Peak, the name given to a ‘flat area’ just before the mountains long narrow crack that was the Screaming Road further to the North. Now, the strangely situated plateau amidst the peaks was neither flat, nor barren, but years of cutting the forest down had left the fort standing on its own in the middle of it. Every summer heavy water flooding from the melting snow and ice pouring down the surrounding heights, had slowly scrapped the soil off the rock clean, left the terrain barren underneath it.
When the wind started was the saying, you better find wall, or shelter in Gudgurth. The latter the name of an Ice ‘Troll’ that had wandered into the mountain passes centuries in the past.
Allegedly.
“This barbaric winter then, is a return to norm for you Mister Maats,” Sirio continued pleasantly.
“Different the cold when paired wit the sea, than up a mountain,” Sibren told him with a grimace of annoyance. Sirio wetted his index finger in his mouth and then used it to clear his quill afore dipping its tip in an inkpot.
“That’s an excellent way of phrasing it sir,” the historian murmured writing everything down. “There’re nuances in winter.”
“This ain’t no plaguin’ winter. Not yet. It’s just the North lad.”
“Uhm. So how do you know mister Parret?” Sirio asked changing the subject.
“He’s a member of the adventurers Guild.”
“You’re an Honorary Head of the Guild here?”
Sibren glared at him. While polite the youngish man was extremely annoying in his queries and passive-aggressively demanding of sorts.
“There’s no guild in Gudgurth, just a tavern,” he grunted. “And I’ve been given privileged membership in five cities. Caspo O’ Bor, Asturia, Riverdor, Rida and Aegium. Farvor has made something as well, I heard it’s a plaguin’ plaque near a spring, but I haven’t been there in thirty years.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It was mostly done so I would agree to take less money for jobs I pulled,” Sibren explained to him. “What you saw in Asturia is a marketing ploy. I rarely find a chair to sit in Gavros place, named spot or not. He does throw in a free beer at least.”
He reached for the bowl of meat soup the wench placed on their table and brought it to his mouth. Sucked at it slowly, an awed Sirio watching him with a bronze spoon in hand. Sibren shook the bowl when he got all the soup out and chugged the hot small pieces of pork left in it down.
“You better finish this quickly,” he told the gawking historian. “That spoon ain’t gonna do it afore it’s cold.”
Sirio gulped and solicitously eyed his soup for a moment. He then used the spoon to bring some in his mouth cautiously. Half an hour later he was still at it and Sibren had almost fallen asleep on the chair, the heat coming from the lit fireplace comforting.
Parret’s return waking him up.
“Fuckin’ wind scraped me beard clean,” the Lorian grunted and sat down on the free chair. His aged face sporting a trimmed beard with plenty of grey in it, but he didn’t have much on his coal black hair. Sibren guessed the man to be in his early forties now. Years had flown by it seemed. “The Legion patrol left early in the morning to return to Northwatch with a stop at South Fort. Another probably coming our way in the next couple of weeks.”
“Where’s that?”
“South Fort? At the junction, on the new road leading to Northwatch. Engineers cut a path through the forest in two months during the summer.”
“Is that Lucius?”
“Ayup,” Elias Parret said with a grimace and grabbed Sirio’s bowl. He brought it to his mouth and chugged all the leftover material down, used the historian’s largely untouched beer to wash it down proper afterwards. The veteran adventurer let out a thunderous burp at the end.
“I haven’t finish—” Sirio protested, but Parret reached and gripped his arm below the elbow, his cold eyes stilled on his.
“Ye did, but it’s okay,” he told him evenly, a hint of steel lacing his undertone. “Now go fetch me another beer.”
Sibren watched the frowning historian leave them to search for the waitress for a moment, afore speaking.
“He’s Lord Nattas’s man.”
Parret stood back at his words.
“Principal of Secrets’?”
Sibren likened the one with the cripple in it more.
“Him.”
“You’re working for Regia now Maats?” Parret asked him.
“It’s not a job.”
“I’m getting paid ye said though.”
“You’ll get us to Kas and ye shall. Ten gold pieces on me word,” Sibren assured him.
Parret nodded very pleased. “So what’s the deal? How did he get you out of retirement?” He asked next and Sibren sort of told him.
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Nothing feels better than a creaky, old and well-used mattress, after a couple of weeks sleeping next to a fire, in early winter’s embrace, unless ye share it wit a nervous cunt, Sibren thought, the gold light coming from the other bed of the room bothering him. He turned to the other side, but fixing the illumination problem, made him concentrate on the bothersome scratching sound the quill made on the parchment.
“Aren’t you tired?” he grunted with his eyes closed, the smell of hay irksome as well all of a sudden.
The scratching stopped.
“I couldn’t write on the road,” Sirio replied after a moment of guilt-ridden silence. “Feeling a bit nervous about forgetting important stuff.”
“You were sniffling in yer sleep, griped of cold around-the-clock when awake and feared wolves were following us,” Sibren summed it up for him. “Which they did, but didn’t tell ya.”
“Mmm, I’m trying to keep a record mister Maats.”
“Not much record left, if ye leave ‘em stuff out.”
“Mister Maats, I don’t think—”
“Call me Sibren and I’ll return the courtesy,” the veteran adventurer replied cutting him off. “This mister stuff is getting on me nerves lad.”
“I guess, it’s time we moved past stiff manners after all we’ve been through,” Sirio droned.
“Don’t know about that, or what yer angling for here,” Sibren admitted with a frown. “I think ye need to get out of your brain lad. Why keep a record?”
“Posterity. People will want to know what happened.”
“On the road to Kas?” The adventurer queried a bit perturbed.
“In general. I’ve been privileged to see history unfold before my very eyes,” Sirio elucidated emotively. Sibren would have cuffed him once upside the head, but the man was injured and too far away to reach him.
“Near Lord Nattas?” Sibren asked instead, his tone indifferent.
“Mostly… yeah.”
Sibren snorted and raised he head to look at him.
“Why did he sent you on this crazy mission?” he asked the bookish man.
“Crazy? It’s important.”
“Crazy because you would’ve been dead already a couple of times,” Sibren explained. “And because the King’s sword shouldn’t be in yer hands, or Lord Nattas’. Besides had I opted to have another cheap beer, the King’s sword would be in outlaws hands by now.”
“I opted to make it to Kas incognito. I could have hired more guards, but saw the value of traveling light and clandestinely,” Sirio ‘defended’ himself. The historian stood out in Asturia, but he was sticking out alike a sore thumb the further they traveled up North. “I admit picking those two was an error,” he added seeing disbelief written all over Sibren’s face.
“You don’t get to correct errors in this life Sirio. You make them and it’s over.”
“I learned a lesson is how I see it Sibren.”
Sibren smacked his lips and stood up on the bed, putting his back on the wall.
“You trust Lord Nattas wit yer life?” he asked.
“He’s an important man.”
That’s not an answer lad.
“Word is people tend to disappear after they do business wit him. Never to surface again. Corpses could wash ashore they say, remains found, unless they are buried deep, or they cross Lord Nattas. The ‘Abominable Cripple’.”
“I’m married to his daughter.”
“One could read that either way Sirio.”
Sirio stared at his parchments thoughtfully.
“Politics is a dangerous game,” he finally said. “War as well and this time is plagued with both.”
“Uhm. Well war is dangerous for those losing it and because it’s unpredictable for those thinkin’ they’re winning. It’ll screw you when you least expect it. So is taking sides and you lads have done that. You more like, as Nattas could just deny his involvement and make it out alive. Fucking his daughter probably didn’t endear him much. Why, he’ll probably get rid of two birds with one stone.”
“Lucius claim is just.”
“Bullshit talk,” Sibren grunted. “It may well be, but that ain’t how things are done in the real world. In this world he’s a rebel and if he loses, people will look at his sword, then look at you. They’ll connect the dots and you’ll lose yer head.”
“He’s taken Kas,” Sirio argued.
“Halfostad as well.”
“Beat the Vanzon’s and the Crulls,” Sirio added, not catching his mocking tone. “Everyone I talked to speaks of Kas growing and the Legion’s works.”
“What that got to do wit the throne of Regia?” Sibren asked. “He just needs to lose one time and he’s done.”
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“The man brought the Legion in the North,” Sirio told him. “Shaped the political landscape and solved a decades old border mess.”
“I don’t know where you get all this Sirio,” Sibren retorted. “He didn’t solve the North’s problem. He just took the land for himself with force. He didn’t bring any god darn Legion here either. He just made one, which is impressive, but not that far-fetched.”
“Creating an army is an accomplishment.”
“Sure, but in the real world,” Sibren grunted. “Bandits make gangs, a thief finds his crew, dancers gather in troupes and good generals built armies. It is how it’s done, if the skill is there.”
Sirio paused and stooped over his parchments to scribble words down.
Sibren sighed and put both his legs down fully awake now. The historian raised his head, one eye still bloodshot and the rough stitches ruining what could have been a pleasant face.
“I had to write it down, very concise and refreshingly raw,” he defended himself.
What are ye doing here lad?
“How is she?” he asked him a bit warmer. “Nattas daughter.”
Sirio bit his lip and stood back. “She’s… different.”
“Lad it was a simple query. To tell ye the truth, I expected you to give me a flowery answer, so we can get some shuteye and ye managed to make it complicated. What the fuck does that mean?”
Sirio blinked in shock.
“Ahm, nothing. She’s the most interesting woman I’ve ever met,” he blurted out.
Now that, Sibren thought. Sounds better.
“You’ve met a lot of them?” he probed and Sirio’s face matched the color of his hurt eye.
Aye, Sibren decided with a smile. That’s what I thought.
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The wind came screaming out of the path, blowing frozen snow and pieces of ice on their covered faces. Sid, who never much liked cold to begin with, neighed angry and shook his mane sending even more material on Sibren’s face.
“Ah, gods darnit, weather’s turning,” Patter yelled, leading their animals. “Got to make the peak soon Maats. Drag the mounts ourselves, if we have to.”
“I ain’t getting off the saddle,” Sibren grunted. “See to find us a spot to wait it out.”
“It isn’t time for a break,” Patter retorted. “Plenty of life in the day.”
“Ayup,” Sibren agreed and pointed an arm at the trembling Sirio. “But not in him.”
“Eh,” the adventurer snorted and turned his horse to push further up the snow covered path.
Sibren glanced at the shivering historian, fully covered in hides and only his eyes showing behind the face cover.
“You think about putting the experience in words?”
“I can’t feel my hands!” Sirio squeaked, his teeth rattling.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Now, the cold feelin’ gets to yer knees then yer in trouble, or your mount is dead. Make a sign then, or whistle really loud.”
“I don’t know how to do that!” Sirio screamed, getting a pretty high pitch in his voice.
Sibren eyed him, under frozen brows. “That’ll do.”
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The fire crackled amidst the sharp boulders, the turn of the path stopping some of it and the falling snow not as thick as earlier. It cut your skin though, if you turned against it and hurt your eyes. Sibren clenched his jaw, staring at the suffering Sirio stooped next to a whitebark tree that stood out amidst the pines.
“What’s his deal?” Patter asked him, sipping from his cool tea.
“Politics and romantic notions, but mostly the former.”
“Mmm. What manner?”
“A king’s sword, not in the king’s hands.”
“That why ye wanted a new one made?” Parret queried.
“Sword is in my bags. I wanted a new one, because I broke mine.”
“It’s a good blade this,” Parret retorted and Sibren checked the sword he’d given him back at Gudgurth Fort.
“Looks like it. But looks can be deceivin’. Don’t you need it?”
“I have the axe. People fight ye face to face up here,” Parret replied and tossed the empty cup in his open bag. “What happened to Grin?”
“We made a mess of it.”
“That’s how it goes. What of the other Issir?” Parret asked with a grimace.
“Grin went out trying to save him,” Sibren grunted not wanting to remember it.
“Why didn’t you go back to Farvor?”
Sibren sighed and wiped some of the frost off his face. “Thought of retiring in a warmer place.”
“Haha,” the other adventurer guffawed. “And here ye are back in the North.”
Sibren nodded.
“It might not seem like it,” he said to sort of justify his reasoning. “But this is an important quest. Fate of kingdoms and such.”
Parret chuckled, the wind blowing half-covering it and smacked his shoulder once getting up, taking his long-shafted Nord-type war axe with him.
“Keep telling yerself that my friend,” the adventurer told him still smiling. “Yer here for the same reason I am. You’re too afraid to die in yer sleep, or end up like him,” he added pointing at the shivering Sirio walking around the tree smacking his thighs to warm them up.
Sibren grunted, the wind stopped suddenly allowing the snow to fall gently around them, hot steam rising from their fire and an arrow whistled from the nearby trees. The adventurer flinched realizing it for what it was and jumped on his feet. Parret who’d walked about five meters away from him to check behind the turn of the path again, twisted around alarmed and the second arrow skewered him through the neck. The fletching’s touching his chin.
“HIDE!” Sibren barked seeing his friend gurgling, drowning in his own blood, steaming gore spraying out of the wound and gasping mouth. He grabbed his sword, the semi-darkness of the approaching sunset not helping him locate the hidden archer and moved away from the fire. Sibren intended to reach the shocked Sirio, the historian had paralyzed on his feet staring at the collapsing Parret, but another arrow whistled angry by his head tracking him.
Giving away the archer’s position.
Son of a cold-hearted bitch.
There’s yer plaguin’ Ranger.
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“Fuckin’ luck of the adventurer,” Gand griped coming up from around the path. And here is the mix-breed. He’d probably circled around them during the storm unseen. Has to have tired himself aplenty to make it in time, Sibren thought and found a tree to stand next to, hoping to cut the archer’s angle.
“Not much luck,” he told the mix-breed Northman. Gand stood taller than him by a couple of fingers, the heavy leather armour he wore making him appear bulkier, but the thin orange beard down his face lessened his image somewhat. He’d a large bastard sword in his right hand, the blade wider than usual. A custom sword, as most other things in the North. Gand spared a glance at the dying Parret, the blood covering the adventurer’s armour and spat once, saliva turning to snow afore touching the ground.
“Callum was in Bas’s rangers,” he told him walking on sure feet to close the distance. “A fine shot. Good lads to have around ayup. You’ve grown old since the rebellion days Maats. The North holds a grudge ye know that.”
“Kell left you off yer leash is that it?” Sibren taunted him, an eye on the Northman, the other scanning the silent woods for the sneaky ranger. He’s probably busy moving to find a better angle, he thought. He has to come towards the path for that, but he won’t fire if I’m tangled up wit Gand.
The latter holding its own problems.
Gand ‘One Ear’ gave him a mean glare.
“Ye should have kept out of our business,” he spat and charged taking two quick forward steps.
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Sibren parried the heavy blade away, bright sparks joining the snowflakes, made to cut Gand across the chest, but saw out the corner of his eye that the Northman’s return swing would beat him to the punch and ducked under it. The heavy blade struck the tree trunk over his head splintering wood and Sibren stepped aside, switching his grip on Parret’s sword.
Gand swung again putting his shoulder behind it, blade whooshing, but he blocked it just under the tip and send it down with a grunt, his heart beating wild in his chest.
“Argh!” Gand growled, lips split and teeth showing. He pulled back with Sibren pressing forward to rob him of his advantage, as the Northman needed more oomph to wield the heavy blade. Sibren’s boot slid on a loose rock and he cursed, stumbling sideways, but Gand who saw the opening overcommitted and slipped on the treacherous terrain as well.
The Northman stumbled forward, going from having the advantage to losing it in less than a breath and Sibren who’d been in far too many scraps to hesitate under immense pressure, slashed him once across the head right where his ear was missing. Blood painted his blade a rich red, Gand dropping to a knee with a groan and then rolling once to get away, exposed flesh revealing part of his jawbone.
Blood running down his face and chest in gushes.
“Motherfucker,” the Northman grunted, voice hoarse from pain and severe shock at the mutilation, turning to another groan cut short. Sibren had stepped forward again, mouth permanently crooked in a scowl and run him through with Parret’s sword from the sides. The blade slipping between the ribs and bending when he hit Gand’s spine.
Getting stuck in him.
The fight over in a minute.
Two tops.
Was it enough time? He wondered twisting about panicked, the steel tip arrow aimed for his back, smacking him on the shoulder bone, after going through his armour. Sibren recoiled, the momentum hurling him back and he lost his footing.
He put a hand out and found a tree trunk to crash onto, a breath and he spotted the fire on the other side than he remembered it, ears ringing. Sibren heard Sid’s worried prolonged neigh, not a meter away. Damnit, he thought the horse’s saddle out of immediate reach and glanced back at the sound of a branch snapping to spot Calum stepping out of the white foliage, the ranger’s armour and garbs covered in ice making him appear like death’s apparition.
Another arrow slotted in his white fur covered bow.
Sid neighed, eyes ogling in panic and desperately tried to untie himself from the branch to come to his aid, the other horses becoming agitated sensing the warhorse’s anguish. Sibren cursed under his breath knowing it was futile, but went for the King’s blade just the same.
There’s no right, or wrong way to fight a scrap, or get out of an ambush.
No fancy unassailable strategy, or special skill to save you in a bind.
Ye just dive in it and hope them details, Milton used to say, fall yer way.
Sibren made a step towards his reeling horse and felt an arrow ripping through his lung, the steel curved tip exploding out of his chest breaking a rib. His mouth flooded with blood, left arm numbing useless and spat a mouthful of gore out afore dropping to his knees half a foot from his horse.
Damnation.
The Ranger’s chuckle ringing in the small opening, the day’s last moments peaceful at this part of the northern pass, other than the neighs of the agitated animals.
“Callum downed two adventurers in a day,” the Ranger declared all proud and Sibren turned around to glare at him. Sibren’s throat clogged with blood instead of air each time he tried to suck a breath in, so he stopped breathing to keep his head clear. Callum slotted his bow on his left shoulder and reached for a long knife he carried on his right thigh. More like a shortsword, on a second look. The thick leather glove he wore on his right hand reaching his elbow. “Where’s the little cunt?”
“He’s long gone,” Sibren grunted, grinding his teeth and feeling his strength wasting away. Fucking northern weather and rusted old fool camping in the open. “He’s a learned man, knows how to disappear. He’ll become one wit nature and the elements. You’ll never find him.”
Callum frowned and glanced about the campsite unsure. “I don’t believe we’re talking about the same man Maats,” he finally said and sure enough Sirio popped his head behind the tree he’d hidden behind to see what was happening.
Chance another throw of the dice, Sibren thought and moved just as Callum heard Sirio moving about like a nervous blind cat. The Ranger turned his head towards the sound and Sibren jumped to his feet clenching his teeth to the point of breaking, the arrow shaft scrapping on valuable organs inside him doing even more damage.
Sibren groaned his vision blurring, but he put a determined hand on the exotic handle and pulled it out. He twisted around as if in slow motion, buzzing blade freed, Callum’s head turning hearing the commotion and hurled it with the last of his strength, afore he collapsed again on his knees.
Sibren saw Callum flinch seeing and probably hearing, the large weapon revolving twice mid-air as it traveled the distance between them, eyes growing afore realizing he could swat it away, or dodge. Not both. The Ranger swung with his shortsword, fearing the ground underneath might betray him, his weapon having a sturdy wide steel blade on it seemingly capable of doing the deed.
It didn’t.
The exotic sword went through the shortsword as if it wasn’t there, cleaved Callum right between the eyebrows, its momentum driving it downwards, splitting his skull in two, down the face, then the neck afore eating through half his chest cavity and stopping.
Leaving a horrific mangled mess in its path.
Sibren had seen wood stubs getting chopped similarly with a forester’s axe.
Almost, but not quite.
Well that was… darn right amazing.
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“Oh no Sibren!” Sirio croaked and tried to move him, the adventurer smacking him once on the chest to leave him alone. “Gods you’re bleeding!” the historian cried out, dropping on his arse shocked.
“I’m dyin’ ye imbecile,” Sibren grunted with difficulty, gulping down his own blood.
“Let me pull it out—”
“Leave it be… fuck’s sake,” Sibren groaned, with fresh gore bubbling out of his mouth. “Let me get a plaguin’ word out.”
“Mister Parret,” Sirio sniffled losing his composure.
“Forget him. Ye need to get… on them horses,” Sibren croaked, seeing only from the one eye. “Ride down the path… world’s biggest idiot couldn’t get lost.”
Sibren was only half-sure about the latter.
“The path,” Sirio repeated unsure, too shaken to understand even the simplest instructions. The fact he had tears rolling down his face unnerving the adventurer.
“Reach… the junction,” Sibren coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed on his back. That darn arrow popping out even more. He brought his hand up, grabbed it at the base and broke it.
“What’s in the junction?” Sirio asked him in a shaky voice, a thin finger poking his left cheek to check if he had died already.
By the fuckin’ dead!
“You’ll… figure it out,” He murmured and felt snow melting on his burning face. The touch feathery and soft, its coldness welcoming.
“I’ll make sure you’re not forgotten my friend. History shall speak of you,” Sirio wept and hugged his shoulders tight, smelling of horse and woman’s perfume.
Ugh.
“I don’t… care,” Sibren grunted, very frustrated. “See to Sid, he’s a bit… difficult.”
“Who’s that?” Sirio asked and wiped his leaking nose with a shaking hand.
But Sibren didn’t bother answering him. Comes a point, when you’ve said all there is to say. All he wanted now was to lie in the cold ground and feel the snow on his face. Ye never got to find yer way home, he thought and heard Milton’s sniggering disagreement, his old partner sitting relaxed beside the frozen trunk a meter away, stretched arm pointing to the west, with only two fingers on it.
The dead adventurer was plaguin’ right.
At least yer sort of back in the North.
Ayup. Didn’t go out in yer sleep also.
So quit bitching about it...
-
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
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